


Little Princess

by Anonymous



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Adding these tags so nobody goes in expecting a love story, Age Difference, BDSM, Boba Fett Being a Jerk, Bounty Hunters, Daddy Issues, Daddy Kink, Dark erotica, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Degredation Kink, F/M, Handcuffs, Humiliation, I warned yall 😂, I'm not publishing your hate comments move along Mary, Main character doesn't die, Master/Pet, Master/Slave, Neutral Ending, No Fluff, Non-Consensual Spanking, POV Female Character, Porn heavy, Rape/Non-con Elements, References to Drugs, Rough Sex, Sex Slave, Sex on Furniture, Spanking, Spit Kink, Stockholm Syndrome, This is not a Boba Fett love story he's pretty shitty, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Verbal Humiliation, Violence, it's not romantic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:20:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 33,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28277514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Boba Fett takes you, the daughter of a crime boss, for bounty. Your bartering for escape fails miserably.Dark fic, please read the tags!(You/reader fic)BTW if anyone following the story wants to chatter I've set up an email account mysteryquill@yahoo.com
Relationships: Boba Fett & Reader, Boba Fett & You, Boba Fett/Reader, Fennec Shand & Reader
Comments: 204
Kudos: 356
Collections: Anonymous





	1. One Fair Daughter And No More

**Author's Note:**

> Boba is NOT nice in this fic, happy reading
> 
> -R.M

You wake, smelling machine oil and metal and leather. There's a ringing in your skull like the chime of some faraway clock tower, and for a minute or so you can't open your eyes; you're afraid that the light will hurt too much.

Somebody had struck you in the head, you remember, as you left a cantina on some nowhere rain-planet to find a place to sleep for the night.

Yes, _yes_ , the memories are coming back to you now; the crisp bite of the night air whipping your hood, rain hammering your back so hard that it almost hurt, the steady hush of water pounding the earth. Wincing against the elements you'd turned a corner and found yourself rammed up against a wall by the cold muzzle of a blaster beneath your jaw. A stocky figure in a cloak and a gleaming helmet had loomed over you, saying your name in a voice as deep and coarse as sand.

"Come with me, or I'll force you. You won't like that, pretty little rich girl."

"No!"

Panting, you'd watched rain bounce off your assailant's beskar armour and considered your options. You couldn't run, too afraid of having your head blown off, but you couldn't give yourself up, either, knowing _exactly_ where you'd wind up, in the end. This faceless man was _far_ from the first person the Family had sent after you, you were sure of that, but none had yet found you but him.

You were very good at hiding; running and fighting, not so much.

Still, you'd tried to escape, as was your only option. You'd kicked out at the bounty hunter's legs, stubbing your toes on his shin guards, then slid your hand into your robes, hunting for the slim knife kept secreted in the folds. The bounty hunter had released a soft, modulated grunt of irritation and twisted the weapon from your hand, making your wrist sing with pain.

Your feet had been swept from under you and a muscled arm had grappled your neck, ready to dandle you over the man's shoulder. Desperate, you'd snapped your teeth at gloved fingers, sinking deep, and it was _then_ that he'd struck you with the blaster, knocking you out cold.

You had known nothing for a time _but_  
nothingness, a bleak and harrowing thing.

Now you're bound upright to a chair on what you can assume from the soft sounds of a console is a ship.

The ship belonging to the man who took you.

Slowly you open your eyes, grimacing even at the low light around you. You're in a cockpit, tied to the passenger seat and gagged with a bit made of hard leather, the kind generally reserved for horses. The side of your chin is wet from where you drooled around the gag while you were unconscious, and you can taste the light tang of blood from where the bit has chafed the corners of your mouth.

Groaning, you sit upright, moving your head from side to side until your neck clicks.

Then you stop, your heart suddenly ice.

Your captor is sitting in the seat to one side of you, watching you coldly from within his expressionless helmet. Gripping the sides of your own chair you claw the leather with broken fingernails.

"Remember me?" asks the bounty hunter. "Your Family has hired me many times, over the years. Never expected a day would come where _you'd_ be my target."

Shuddering, you nod: _oh_ yes, you remember him. Boba Fett has long been a familiar fixture in your home; there is always some misguided fool willing to anger the syndicate, not realising which ruthless predator they had at their beck and call. You'd always watched him apprehensively from the corner of a room during his visits, disturbed by his silent menace.

This is the most you've ever heard Boba speak, and it frightens you.

"I'll take _this_ off to give you water," he says, gesturing to the bit that is still cascading with your saliva. "I wouldn't recommend trying to bite me again."

The swollen lump on your scalp throbs violently, and with a pained whimper you nod your assent. You don't want Boba to touch you, but you're thirsty, your mouth hurts and besides, you're _ashamed_ to be sitting like this, spit smeared all over your face like a child.

Boba approaches you with a slight swagger, confidence pulsing through his every motion. He grips your jaw with his right hand and untangles the buckles of the bit from your hair until the ends swing loose. Your head twitches with fear and humiliation, but Boba holds fast.

"You're a mess, girl."

With a wet sucking sound the bounty hunter yanks the bit from between your teeth and holds it aloft, admiring the silvery skein of saliva that hangs between your mouth and the leather.

"What a beauty."

His voice is so flat that you can't tell whether he's being sarcastic or not.

As Boba turns to grasp a metal flask from the floor you start to talk, hoping _some_ part of his cold assassin's heart might take pity on you. You're surely much younger and prettier than most of Boba's targets, and it's rumoured that he has a taste for whores or, indeed, any woman willing to part her thighs to a killer. _Kriff_ , you've seen it firsthand; one day around eight months ago Boba had passed you on his way out from a business meeting with the Family and had run his hand down your body, his head turning slightly to watch your petrified reaction.

It had been bold of him to behave so in his employer's house, towards his employer's _daughter._ You'd thought about how _very_ much he must have desired you- and yet he had not taken you. He was too hard, too clever, too avoidant of weakness.

But perhaps somewhere along the line all that changed, or maybe he'll feel safe enough in his own ship to ravage you the way he didn't, back then. You don't _want_ him to be so emboldened, but you have no choice but to at least _try_ to play into his interests.

So you talk, _babble_ , eyes wide and pleading in the hopes of winning the mercenary's favour.

" _Please_ don't take me back there. I don't want to be one of _them_. Criminals. Murderers. Gangsters. I need to get away. Start a new life. Whatever they paid you to collect me, I'll get the money somehow, just, _please_ -"

Apparently ignoring the offer Boba puts the flask against your lips. Flushing in embarrassment you gulp a few mouthfuls of the liquid, spilling much of it. Boba smears a gloved thumb across your lips, wiping away spit and water, and you stare into the dark void of his visor, wishing you could see his eyes, the _feeling_ in them.

"You have to help me," you say. "I'm begging you. You don't know what they'll _do_ to me-"

A sharp bark of laughter emits from the unfathomable helmet.

"You'll get a smacked arse and an early bedtime. Always were Daddy's little girl. Clearly he misses you enough spend a considerable fortune on bringing you back."

The mocking words send a shudder through your abdomen, like wet fire. You wonder what kind of price is on your head and wince, feeling very small and pathetic under Boba's penetrating stare.

"He's a tyrant," you protest. "He's scared I'll talk if I leave the Family. I know things he wouldn't want me to let slip. But if you tell them that I'm dead they'll _stop_ looking for me. They can forget me. Please Boba-"

"Quiet."

He starts unleashing each of your binds save for a pair of cuffs at your wrists and ankles. The aggressive masculine heat of him so close to you makes you quiver with nerves. You force yourself against him, as if he could feel your despair through his armour.

"You have to help me, _please_ -"

A backhand across your face sends you reeling, only Boba's fingers around your upper arm preventing you from falling.

"I said _shut_ it. If you were a slave I'd pity you. But you're just the pampered daughter of a king pin throwing a tantrum. You're a waste of my time and resources."

Your face throbs, your teeth and jaw like hardened flame, and abruptly you want to cry. _No-one_ has hit you like this, not even the Family, despite their frequent threats. Boba is right; all your life you've been protected, like a pearl in the soft innards of a clam.

As you stare at him, watery-eyed, the bounty hunter grabs you by the shoulders and yanks you to your feet. His grip on you is punishing, bruising, and you realise that his distaste for you is genuine, not merely posturing to keep you in your place.

"What are you doing?" you ask, nervously.

Without replying Boba marches you through the belly of the ship and shoves you into a dark bathroom. He removes the binds from your arms and holds you for a moment, his gloved thumb pressing a painful point on your wrists. Your hands look frail against his, like pale leaves.

" _These_ go back on when you're done," says Boba, rattling the cuffs.

"Yes, sir," you whisper, and are surprised by the dark chuckle that emerges from the helmet.

Boba slams the door, leaving you in meagre privacy to use the toilet and wash up; clearly he doesn't want the extra hassle of you soiling his ship. Out of sheer spite you think about raising your leg and pissing on the floor like a dog, but the man has _already_ hit you once, and only gently compared to what he is capable of.

You use the toilet, remove your hooded cloak, which is still sodden with rain and bloody at the edges from where Boba struck you unconscious, and empty its pockets of the few credits you have left into your hand. Not much, barely enough for a hot meal, hence why you were in that cantina, flirting awkwardly with strange men in the hopes that they'd buy you dinner.

Thus far that's the furthest you've ever gone for money, and as much awed respect you hold for the glamorous females you'd seen leading clients out of the bar by the hand _you're_ too inexperienced and afraid of being recognised to try it. If Boba _hadn't_ found you then this cash wouldn't have lasted a day, and you would have been stranded. Luck hasn't favoured you, as of late.

You think about using the refresher, but decide against it, not liking the thought of Boba standing only feet away from you while you're naked and vulnerable. Instead you wash quickly at the sink and dry off on a coarse towel, wishing you had something clean and dry to wear rather than the sodden velvet dress you've had on all evening. You abandon the cloak and put the credits into your boot, hoping to have opportunity to slip out of Boba's clutches and put them towards getting as far from the man as possible.

Boba opens the door just as you're examining your head wound in the bathroom mirror.

"It's not deep," he says, coolly. "I checked. You're just fragile. Hands."

You thrust your wrists obediently towards him, keeping your eyes lowered. Despite Boba's implied dislike of slavers it's quite clear that he enjoys your weakness, fearful and yielding. Is it the _man_ in him that craves submission, or some unknowable evil? You feel his stare on your breasts and hips in the dress and swallow, wishing that you'd kept the cloak on, after all. All too easy to imagine a collar around your neck, a chain in Boba's fist as you sit on the floor between his thighs, a sight not unknown to you from crime circles you've frequented at your family's behest.

"Walk," says Boba.

He pushes you in the small of your back and you stumble, wishing that you'd refused the cuffs and risked a beating. You know enough self-defence to get a good blow in on him, if you'd still had your hands, and Boba must know what you're thinking from the set of your jaw because he pushes you again, almost playfully, it seems, from the tone of his voice as he speaks.

"I knew that delicate female act was bantha shit. Your _Family_ are ruthless killers. You'd be stupid not to pick up a few dirty tricks from them along the way."

"I've tried not to. I don't have much."

"Then you _are_ stupid."

He makes you sit in the leather chair again, but he doesn't tie you down, this time. Boba takes his own seat, one leg thrown over the arm. His aura of utter dominion is disconcerting. You don't know how to respond to him, how to keep him interested without inviting further punishment.

"Well?" says Boba, his head inclined. "Plead your case. Why should I stick my neck out for _you_ , mob princess?"

The word 'princess' makes you quiver with fear and- something _else_ , an inappropriate pang of excitement. You're not used to being spoken to like this, all derision and disrespect; _that_ must be why it makes you feel this way.

"I... the Family will hurt me if you take me back," you stammer. "I've seen it happen to others who've tried to break away or retire without permission."

"Your father _did_ mention punishment," Boba says, thoughtfully. "Said he didn't care what shape you came back in. Seemed to think you _deserved_ to be roughed up a bit. Makes me wonder what else you did to make Daddy angry."

A shot of cold darts down the back of your neck. You turn your head, unsettled by Boba's stare.

"Money. I took some of his money. Well, a _lot_ of it. Paid someone to take care of the guards. The palace is more like a fortress, I had no choice, I had to-"

"So you didn't even get your _own_ hands dirty."

Boba leans forward, making you press your back fearfully against your seat.

"Typical. You've been brought up on slaver money, never raised a finger to help any of the sorry creatures that crossed your threshold. So, let me ask again. Why should I set you free? You're worth a pretty credit, brat."

He's right and you know it. You bite your lip, feeling tears squeeze to the back of your eyes.

"Ah," says Boba, with an audible sneer. "The waterworks. Predictable."

When the first tear slips down your cheek he reaches out and dashes it across your cheek with his thumb. Reflected in his visor you see the eye makeup you'd worn to the cantina has smeared all over your face, making you look like a whore.

Perhaps it's time to live up to your appearance.

"I know I don't deserve your help," you say, unsteadily. "So- so what can I do to _earn_ it?"

You lean forward, letting the dress fall open at your chest, trying to swallow your shame and disgust. Boba stares at you for a moment, and suddenly his hand is at your throat, as if you've _attacked_ him, not attempted to sell yourself for your freedom.

"What are you playing at? I'm not one of your father's friends, you little slut. If you want my services you pay in cash."

"I've _told_ you I don't have any," you gasp. "I'll get it when I can, I-"

You struggle, bringing your cuffed hands up in an attempt to knock Boba's arm off your neck. He moves so quickly that it's almost unnatural. Suddenly you're being slammed against the control deck, your face slapped again from right to left, making you choke on your words.

"You know what _I_ think, little girl?" Boba snarls, shaking you by the neck like a dog with a rabbit. "I think you crave a bit of punishment. You knew that your father would send someone after you. I think you _wanted_ putting in your place, didn't you, eh?"

He takes the front of the dress and tears it down the middle, making you squeak as your breasts bounce free and peak in the cold. You're too out of breath to fight, but you can't control the tears of shame coursing down your cheeks. And yet, deep within you, you feel an answering pang of arousal to that humiliation, like a primordial instinct.

This scares you as much as Fett does, perhaps because you know that he can sense it in you, is getting off on it despite the display of anger and aggression.

Boba reaches down, uncuffs your ankles, and edges forward, standing between your legs. He must have removed his armoured codpiece because you feel his hardness pressing against your inner thigh, huge, undeniable, a thing of lust and violence. His beskar armour is cold on your exposed skin, raising gooseflesh on every inch of you.

"Please don't do this, Boba-"

"Keep my name out of your mouth, little slut."

He gasps your breasts harshly, thumbing your nipples to attention. Surely he can't feel much through those gloves; it's your _reaction_ he's feeding on, his power over the offspring of a crime lord. You keep your cuffed arms above your head, afraid of being hit again if you dare move them. The muscles strain, making you grunt softly under your breath. You _sense_ rather than see Boba's leer of contempt.

" _You_ asked for this. Maybe it will teach you not to throw yourself at the most dangerous bounty hunter in the galaxy."

He tears your dress further, exposing your lower half. The helmet tilts downwards, and you quiver, ashamed to endure his scrutiny. A gloved hand cups your cunt through your panties, then with a brutal yank rips them away. You can feel yourself clench, hot and tingling sickeningly in response to his touch.

"Wet for me," says Boba, softly. "Does your family know that a _whore_ is going to inherit their legacy?"

"Please stop this," you whimper.

 _Why_ did you have to tempt him? Were you _so_ sure that he'd be too proud to ravish you? Suddenly you're angry as much as you're scared. This man has no right to you, no matter what life you've lived, what sins you've overlooked to get by. He's twice, _three_ times the monster you are, his conscience soaked with the souls of the dead.

Simmering with rage you strain your torso forward and spit at Boba's visor. He freezes, and as the globule of saliva slips down the dark glass you realise how badly you've fucked up.

"You dirty bitch," breathes Boba. " _That_ was a mistake, my girl."

He wipes his visor with an angry jerk and rolls you onto your stomach, slamming your head down against the deck. You hear a leathery rustle as Boba unclips his belt and yelp in terror.

 _Oh_ , how well you know that sound, having lain awake cringing in your palace bedroom to the howls of slaves being whipped for whatever petty slip-up their Masters saw fit to lash them for.

"You thought your _father_ was going to beat you? _This_ -"

Boba brings the belt down on your bare ass, first the right cheek, then the left. You scream in agony, each strike like a red hot brand, but Boba doesn't relent.

"-is a beating."

He holds you down easily with one arm while he spanks you, cupping the raw flesh in his hand between blows and rubbing almost gently at your redness. Then he renews his aggression, strapping you so fiercely that you're shocked he hasn't broken the skin like an eggshell in the mouth of a dog. This is a man who knows his own strength, is in _complete_ control.

Tears peal down your face, and you cough out brittle sobs of pain, anger, and panic. You've only ever cried like this in those lonely nights; you _never_ showed fear around the Family, no more than you could safely afford.

"Please stop," you beg. " _Please_ , Daddy-"

_Oh Maker. Oh no._

"What was that?"

Boba grabs the back of your head by the hair and twists your face to look at him. A fresh wave of shame explodes within you; the word had come from every time you've had to beg for something in your life, every time you've wormed your way out of punishment. You didn't know _what_ you were about to say until it left your lips, and now it hangs in the air like something perverse. Kriff, it _is_ perverse, directed at _him_.

" _Answer_ me," Boba snaps. " _What_ did you call me?"

Miserably you dart your eyes right and left, unable to meet the visor's impenetrable glare.

"' _Daddy_ '", you choke out, nauseated by the two syllables souring your tongue. "I- I didn't _mean_ to."

Boba laughs, a cruel, sardonic sound that is also thick with arousal.

" _That_ was obvious."

You hear Boba's belt clink to the floor, and release a tight sigh of relief. But then Boba slides his hand over your buttocks, between your legs, thrusting two fingers into your wetness, and you stiffen again. It finally sinks in that this is really what he intends to do, no mere threat or taunt.

"Don't!" you sputter.

"If you want me to stop, then _beg_ me. Use _that_ name."

You recoil, wishing you could burrow through the ship like a sand lizard to slip away from the man.

" _No_!"

"Then I'll do what I like with you."

Boba pumps his thick fingers inside you to the knuckle, then thumbs your clit in coarse circles, making you throb with unwanted pleasure. You grit your teeth and try not to make a sound, but he's clever, skilled, and _mean_ with it. It makes you feel so helpless, _useless_ , truly the debauched girl he thinks you are.

"You're going to come on my fingers," Boba growls. " _Aren't_ you, little brat?"

You shake your head, trying to squeeze your thighs shut, but using one knee Boba rams them wide apart and slaps your ass again.

"Yes, you are," says Boba. "Because you're a weak little slut, aching for a lesson from Daddy."

His voice sends wicked shivers through you, and you _hate_ how your body responds to it. He runs a finger through your juices and forces it into your unfilled hole, the pain making you shriek and squirm back against him again.

"You're going to come because you don't have any choice. _I_ am king here. You, little girl, are _nothing_. You can't help dripping when I command it. Now _come_ , princess."

That does it. You keen as the unwanted climax rips through your abdomen in sweet, horrible spasms, coating Boba's gloved hand in your release. It horrifies you, making you realise exactly _why_ this man is so feared: he understands what makes people tick, not only how to end them.

The bounty hunter turns you onto your back again and slaps your tear-caked cheek, rubbing your own juices into the filth already there.

"Just as I thought. Pathetic."

As Boba reaches between his legs to release his cock you decide to leave what little dignity you have at the door and plead for clemency; that must be better than being ruined by your enemy.

" _Please_ don't, Da-daddy," you say, gagging on the saccharine words.

Boba chuckles throatily, and you _hate_ him for his arrogance, hate him for forcing himself on you and making you enjoy every hellish second of it.

"Must have killed you to say that," growls Boba, smugly.

He stands up abruptly, sits in the pilot's seat, and beckons you to him. With unsteady legs you stand, then reluctantly approach. At the last minute you lurch to the left, trying to veer past Boba even though there's nowhere at all to run to, even had you possessed the speed to do so. The bounty hunter seizes you by the waist and swings you up onto his lap, his helmet slamming against your face, so cold, so cruel.

You feel the head of his cock push against your entrance, and try desperately to tighten against him, but you're so wet from your climax that the thick member fills you easily, the sudden violation making you scream with pain and humiliation.

"You've given me _far_ too much trouble to get away without a fucking," snarls Boba, squeezing your waist so hard that your muscles ache. "You've been _begging_ for it, you proud little cunt."

He stretches you so much that you release sharp cries, terrified that he might break something within you. Yet at the same time you're wild with the ecstasy building within your core. It's the terrifying thrill of being manhandled by a near-stranger who thrives on death and killing. It's the way he's growling with loathing and arousal and a vicious humour as he slams his length inside you, the way he bounces you in his lap as if you weigh nothing, the way that each jarring buck of his hip sets some secret part of you alight.

Mostly it's the way he's fucking you like you're worth nothing at all.

You try to bring your arms from behind your back to wrap around his neck and choke him, but Boba's right hand leaves your waist to bring them back down, twisting the flesh so viciously that you know it's going to bruise.

"Careful," says Boba, never slowing the aggressive speed of his thrusts. "Don't push your luck."

Whimpering, you raise your eyes to his visor, wondering what kind of man is behind that helmet, how he justifies this abuse to himself. You wish that through the agony his ministrations didn't feel so good, but they _do_ , and _he_ knows it. The sound of your wetness sluicing his cock as he fills you gives you away.

"I hate you," you say, and expect Boba to hit you again.

Instead he pushes you off his lap onto the floor, forcing his boot against the middle of your back to pin you down. He uncuffs you, but not for _your_ sake, never that.

"It's cute that you think I care," says Boba, and there's a grin in his voice. "Get on all fours, _now_ , before I have to hurt you again."

Snivelling, you obey, deciding that his cock is better than the belt. At once Boba is behind you, his thick, muscular body pressing against you as his cock parts your cunt again. He pulls your hair as he rams you, wrenching your scalp so that you hiss like a cat.

" _This_ is how I should have fucked you when I _last_ saw you," says Boba, his modulated voice hissing against your ear. "Should have bent you over the furniture in that damned palace and made you scream my name."

A shriek of dismay escapes you, and quickly warps into a sound of pleasure as Boba brings his fingers beneath you to rub your clitoris again. You try so hard not to let climax take you, wanting to evade that treacherous rush of need. The bounty hunter releases your hair and pushes your head into the ground again, rubbing your face in the mess of tears and drool you've made as he hilts his phallus so deep within you that it makes your hips throb with pain.

"Dirty girl. You're going to come on Daddy's cock, _aren't_ you?"

"N-no-"

Boba slaps your buttocks, making them roar with soreness again. His fingers are bringing you to a singing point of ecstasy unlike any you've felt before.

"Do it, or I'm going to have to come inside you. Imagine that, the rich little princess filled by a bounty hunter."

The thought makes your stomach churn, and at the same time boil with arousal. You let the building pressure inside you tip over, your back arching, your fists clenched, your teeth driving down on your lip to keep a moan from falling free of them. Boba groans thickly, and as your cunt clenches down on him you feel him twitch in response, reaching his own peak.

"No!" you cry, but Boba's vast arms are pinning you still, dominating you, imprisoning you as he spills his seed inside you, pulse after pulse of orgasm making you his.

At last he pulls out of you, and you sense the smirk under his helmet as you lie in a heap, quaking in misery and exertion.

"Hey, slut," Boba says, casually, as he rebuckles his belt and clips his codpiece back on. "You're dripping on my floor. Lick it up."

Sobbing gently, you turn around and lap at the puddle of come that slicks the floor. Boba watches with obvious satisfaction, his helmeted head on one side. Only when you're done does Boba take you by the shoulders and wrench you upright, but rather less roughly than he's handed you up until this point. He pats your ruined face, as if you're a pet that has performed an endearing trick.

"Well, seems you're not entirely a waste of my time, after all."

"Boba," you say, weakly. "Are you still going to take me home? To the Family?"

The bounty hunter sits in his chair again and puts his arms behind his head lazily.

"Haven't decided yet. Might keep you for a few days, see how much you entertain me."

There's a humorous lilt to his voice that gives you hope, and it humiliates you to think this is what you're reduced to, pinning your life on the whims and appetites of a killer. You keep your head lowered submissively, but your mind is roiling with grief and rage.

It's then that you begin planning your revenge.


	2. Make Mad the Guilty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welly well well, I did not expect to be writing a second chapter for this but I was so happy with the response I thought I'd provide a little more!! Not sure quite how long this story will end up being but enjoy the ride 😇
> 
> \- R. M

He makes you sleep on the floor that night, your captor, cold and naked and cuffed to the base of his ship's pilot seat like a bad dog. Not that you _get_ much sleep, knowing where you are. Knowing how viciously you've been used by the Family's hired killer.

The hardness of the floor makes your aching hips throb with pain, and the only thing you can think about is how _badly_ you want Boba Fett to die.

All night you fever over revenge, ideas cycling in nightmare repetition until you frighten yourself with their cruelty. You've always fought to distance yourself from the criminals that raised you, resisting their grooming with dreams of a happier life far from the grim duracrete walls of your father's palace. But now you're starting to understand how the people there _became_ so hard and callous, why everyone is out for themselves.

Men like Boba grind away the innocence from even the purest souls like a Death Stick stubbed out in the dirt.

You curl up, wrapping your arms around yourself for minor comfort. If _only_ you could get off this ship into a city, somewhere you can pay for access to a phoneline or comlink with the last of your credits. There are a few contacts you've learned by heart for emergencies, crooks, swindlers and contract killers willing to lend a favour to the daughter of king pin Raxis Tantu. Pride kept you from asking them for help before- that, _and_ the terror of them getting word back to your father.

Now you are too desperate to cling to any scruples. You _must_ claw your way out of this trap, and knock Boba Fett down into it in the process.

In the early hours of the morning you stiffen as the sound of clinking spurs enters the cockpit. You scramble as far upright as far as the binders will allow you and shrink into yourself, all thoughts of revenge dissipating as the bounty hunter stares down at you through obsidian glass. Every nerve in your body twitches like a thousand pinpricks, and you wonder what horrors hang in the balance for you today.

"Morning, Trouble," Boba quips. "Did you sleep well?"

Tight-lipped, you shake your head. You haven't slept a wink, lying open-eyed long before the grey, perpetually damp morning light of the planet Tarsi cut pale slashes across the floor. _He_ knows that, of course. It's the reason he left you here, wanting you to suffer, the way he'd punished you the day before.

And to make you dull, slow, easy to control.

"You're going to behave yourself today," says Boba, bending to uncuff you from the chair. "Because I don't have time to play games with you, and if you give me a hard time then you're gone. Understand?"

You nod again, your lips so dry that the tip of your tongue lifts a flake of skin from the crack. Boba hovers over you, running his hand coarsely over your body. You flinch so hard from the touch that you almost topple over, but you don't try to attack him, nor do you speak. The places he hit you are sore, and if you take too much damage there is no way that you'll ever escape him, let alone extract your revenge.

Or have other, _stronger_ talents take it for you.

"You've learned quickly," croons Boba. "Good girl."

"Don't call me that," you blurt out, and wince, anticipating a slap.

The bounty hunter laughs thickly, the sound making your teeth chatter.

"Oh, princess. I'm going to break you in so hard you’ll be _begging_ for my praise. You'll learn to live for it."

Revulsion drives a steel pin through your stomach.

"You're no better than the Family," you say, in a sick little whisper. "The slavers."

The bounty hunter's posture tightens, and you sense his mood darkening.

"Don't play the victim. You deserve a shot to the temple for the blood on your hands. I'm going easy on you."

Boba grips a hank of your hair and twists, making you release a strained yelp.

"Besides, you're serving me by _choice_. You could go home to your doting father and end up locked in your tower forever. Or I could sell you to rivals of the Family; a lot of hard men would pay through the nose for you, brat."

Your pulse quickens. You've already been a sort of decorative prisoner in your own home for too many years, and as for the crime families in competition with the Tantu- _they_ would tear you apart and comlink every moment to your father purely to wound him and his influence. Boba is keenly aware of all this, no doubt having enough intelligence on every notable figure in the underworld to predict almost their every move.

"Why can't you just let me _go_?" you ask, pitifully. "You've taught me my _lesson_. You don't need me."

" _Need_ , no," Boba agrees. "I don't do _this_ on a regular basis. Too risky. Dangerous to let your guard down."

He steps back from you and paces in a slow semi-circle, allowing you to appreciate his broad, imposing figure, the way he already has a blaster hanging at his side for a day of callous bloodshed.

"But you're not just an empty-headed girl, are you? You were Daddy's prime showdog; he took you to business meetings, parties, auctions. There are maps to a couple of hundred locations in that head of yours, I wouldn't wonder. Information _I_ might not have picked up. Be a shame to get rid of you before I test that knowledge."

Fear jumps into your throat, making it even tighter and drier than before.

"I can't _do_ that," you croak. "I'll attract a dozen bounties-"

"Not if they think you're already dead. As you suggested, clever one."

Boba snaps his fingers and gestures to a spot on the floor at his feet.

"That's assuming I decide to keep you. Try to convince me, eh?"

You gawp at Boba's outstretched finger, unsure of what he's suggesting. Then you see his free hand gliding down the front of his robes, unclipping the codpiece, and you understand.

"I- I can't," you say again, weakly.

Part of you swirls with acid and salt and sickness. Another feels warm and terribly entertained by the thought of being abused again, the same mad thrill you felt seeing the palace guards shot down to clear the way for you in your escape.

"You took me just fine last night," says Boba. "Don't undersell yourself. Now, come here."

Then, as you rise unsteadily to your feet he barks, "Didn't say you could _walk_."

He wants you to crawl, the way slave-girls often do to their Masters, brought low and grovelling and picking up dirt on your knees. You let out a wild, gasping laugh at the sheer hellish monstrosity of your situation, and Boba tilts his head at such an angle that you sense the quick, merciless anger rising in him.

The laugh crumbles in your throat.

"I won't ask you again," says Boba.

Flushing with shame you get down on all fours and shuffle towards him, wishing miserably that you'd never had the idea to break from the Family in the first place. You stop between Boba's legs, glancing up at his helmet with agonised eyes. He runs his hand through your hair, over your ear, stroking the cartilage between finger and thumb as one might caress a docile kitten.

"Suck Daddy's cock," he murmurs. "I want to see my come on your face, beauty."

Suppressing a shudder you wrap a hand around Boba's erection, overwhelmed by fear and that sneaking, secret feeling of desire expanding within you. You wish Boba was _someone_ else, _somewhere_ else, not a man forcing you to pleasure him out of spite. It would make your human needs less disgusting, less painful to bear.

His cock is thick, tanned, with a few pale scars scattered on the shaft. Precum has already gathered at the tip, shivering like a milky gem. You feel your parched throat squeeze shut at the sight of it, and your mouth won't open, not until Boba pinches your jaw to spring it apart and thrusts himself into the back of your throat. You taste musk and sweat on him, the salt of precum, but you're choking and gasping and can think of nothing else but the fact that you can't _breathe_.

Boba uses your mouth like a toy, dragging your head up and down his vast length so roughly that the back of your mouth burns as you fight your hardest to take him. The wet, slick sounds of his girth abusing your throat is embarrassingly loud in the quiet ship, and you can hear Boba growling softly, enjoying how poorly you adjust to his size.

"The _last_ princess that was offered to me I turned down," he breathes, his gloved fingers knotted close to your scalp. "Never thought I'd have an opportunity like that again."

You feel your throat close up and start to gag and retch, drool slipping from either size of your lips. Boba pulls out of your throat for just long enough for you to gasp a few mouthfuls of air before burying himself into your throat again. It humiliates you to be made into _this_ , a grovelling servant to his wants. You're uncuffed, but know you can't fight back; as much as you have the choice to oppose or to be released from this contract only further abuse awaits on the other side.

A pained tear spurts from your left eye as you swallow Boba's length again and again. It falls from your cheek to the floor with an audible and dramatic _plink_.

"You're pretty when you cry," says Boba.

His voice is ugly, clotted with pleasure.

"Touch yourself. I want you to come while you swallow me, brat."

The request sends a hopeless shudder through you, but you move your fingers between your legs obediently, rubbing your juices over the throbbing head of your clit until you feel your climax rising. You can't _believe_ how wet you are, how _eager_ your body seems to betray you when you're suffering _so_ completely.

"That's it," Boba hisses. "I'm close."

His cock beats your throat so aggressively that you feel like your mouth is ablaze, but you let him rock your skull with his dick until at last he groans, reaching his orgasm as you pathetically coax yourself into your own. Boba's member twitches in your throat, and you feel his seed spill warmly upon your waiting tongue. Then he pulls out, another spurt of warm come coating your face and breasts as you _gasp_ and _sweat_ and _shudder_.

"Look at you," says Boba, pulling your head back to inspect your ruined face. "You were _born_ for this, little girl."

"Yes, Daddy," you whisper.

You know that this is what the bounty hunter wants, this debasing, almost incestuous language, and sure enough you hear him groan in satisfaction. So _this_ is the game you're going to have to play, the same feigned submission and meekness that's gotten you through every year of your life.

"Can I... use the refresher?" you ask, your voice very small and pained.

Boba runs two gloved fingers through the mess on your face and pushes them into your mouth, making you suck them clean. Once the fabric is spotless he nods curtly, apparently tired of watching you.

"Go on. Be back here in fifteen minutes."

You don't dare question how you're meant to tell when your time is up. Instead you ask, "Can I have something to wear? Please?"

The vulnerability of nakedness as well as the cold makes you feel so unlike yourself that even the smallest scrap of fabric on your skin would be like a gift from the Maker.

"I'll get you something," says Boba. "Don't expect luxury. You're not in your palace now."

Desperate for privacy you walk quickly to the small bathroom and shut yourself inside, standing, fists clenched, in the silence, trying to gather your emotions. You cannot scream, break down, or lose your nerve. Over the years you've seen slaves go mad, howling and tearing at themselves before some guard stood them against a wall to be shot. That will _not_ be your existence; you haven't come this far to die.

Boba has left toiletries for you to use: a toothbrush and paste, a bar of soap, but no razor. He's no idiot; even if you don't harm yourself even the safest razor could be bent and broken into a weapon against him. You make the best of what you have, even putting the plain cake of soap through your hair to get the grease out.

It's clear that Boba expects you to be _thankful_ for these few necessities, considering he most likely ties up most hostages in a corner without food and water.

You scrub your teeth and tongue and gums until your mouth is full of blood, but you can't rinse off what you _did_ , the way you brought yourself to pleasure as your captor's cock filled your gullet. Still, you you thrust your open mouth under the faucet and drink until your stomach hurts; you're hungry as well as thirsty, and you don't know when you’ll eat again.

After drying off your hair as best you can with the towel you wrap it around you, pausing a moment to appreciate that you're covered again. You know you've run well over your allotted fifteen minutes of privacy, but you need to get yourself together before you return to Boba, need to stop behaving like a weak little girl. There are protocols the Family taught you for hostage situations- remain calm, comply, avoid conflict -and so far you've barely scraped through any of them.

But Boba isn't _like_ other bounty hunters. He has absolutely no fear of your status or the Family, and this does not surprise you. You recall whispered rumours that Fett has taken over the remnants of Jabba the Hutt's old kingdom; if this is true then you perhaps have more to fear than you thought before.

Taking a deep breath you open the bathroom door and enter the control room, trying to gather a little of your old poise. Boba is sat pouring over a datapad, one leg casually propped up on the control deck. As you approach he turns to look at you, bringing his boot down onto the floor again.

"You were in there for half an hour. Wasting my water."

"I lost track of the time," you say. "I'm... I'm sorry."

"Hmm."

Boba picks up something soft and black from the floor- an oversized shirt, one of his -and throws it to you.

"Get dressed."

You make as if to turn back to the bathroom, but Boba raises a hand.

"Do it here. You're lucky you're not in cuffs. Don't test my patience."

Shame rattles through you like a cold wind, and you try to change with dignity, gripping the towel to you with one upper arm while you pull the shirt over your head. Only when it's fully pulled down do you let the towel fall, and Boba, who had apparently been ignoring you to tap at the datapad, lets out a snort of derision.

"Oh, so you're a prude now, are you?"

You recoil against a wall, tugging the shirt as far down your thighs as it will go.

"I never wanted this," you say, simply.

"Then you shouldn't have run away, Princess."

Bobba pats his lap and, cringing with disgust, you cross the room to perch on his left leg. The beskar armour presses coldly to your back and you squirm at how close your crotch is to his, so close that you feel yourself throb in involuntary response. You try not to move at all, afraid of spurring him again. Despite his age Boba seems as virile and hungry as a much younger man.

"You know him?" asks Boba, gesturing to the datapad.

You lean forward, and the bounty hunter puts an arm around you to hold you steady as you study the image on screen. The tight grip, so casual, so imprisoning, reminds you of how easily he fucked you the day before, and there is no way he isn't thinking of it too. Swallowing gorge, you push the datapad away.

"Yes, I know him. It's Mruragri."

"Know much about him?"

You think about shaking your head, lying through your teeth, but you feel the vice of Boba's hand on your waist and know he'll sense the falsehood.

"Why are you looking for Mruragri?"

"The usual reason. Someone wants him dead."

That familiar sensation of dread and guilt douses you like a sluice of ice.

"You realise that he was in service once? To the Hutts?"

"And? Now he's an arms dealer to every crime lord in the vicinity. Only he made a bad sale, pissed someone off. That _someone_ has put a price on his head."

"So you want me to tell you where he might be."

"Got it in one, princess."

You feel Boba's stare on the back of your neck.

"But he- he didn't _choose_ this life," you say. "The Hutts bought him as a child. He had no choice-"

"He's no child now. He made his bed. And something you ought to know-"

Boba moves his hand up to your right breast, squeezing it through the shirt. Even through the thick, black fabric you feel your nipple hardening.

"-Is that I have _no_ loyalty. I can count the marks I've freed in my career on one hand. A Twi'lek weapon seller will not be the next. Now, I want co-ordinates."

Threat buzzes in his voice like the hum of an angered swarm. Many of the Families rely on Mruragri's services for high-quality weaponry, including your own; this hit is apt to stir up a lot of questions and suspicions, particularly with you still missing.

Boba utters your name, making you jerk in response.

"I- I know the locations of three of his hideouts," you say. "But he _could_ have more."

You take the datapad and quickly type out the co-ordinates with shaking fingers. Once you're done you push at Boba's arm, hoping that he'll release you, but he keeps you in his lap, looking through the locations you've given him on the little glass screen.

" _Ah-ah_. You stay right here, your Highness."

"You've got what you want," you say, impetuously. "So let me _down_."

There is a moment's pause, then suddenly you're flung from Boba's lap sideways at a wall, crumpling against it like a broken puppet. Boba is rising behind you, putting the datapad down and gripping his blaster instead.

"Are you _stupid_?" he snarled. "Thought I wouldn't recognise these co-ordinates?"

You turn around, shrinking into your shoulders as Boba approaches you, silhouetted against the rain-lashed windshield like a vast and terrible demon.

"I don't know what you mean," you protest. "You asked me what I know, and I told you. Mruragri frequents those three places, I-"

"Shut up."

Boba presses the blaster to your lips, and you open your mouth as obediently as a pet receiving a treat. He rams the gun into your throat as he did his cock, and you panic as your tongue scrapes the metal.

"Those locations are three of the worst snake-pit dives I've come across. Step in any of them unannounced and alone and you likely won't come out alive."

You bring your hands up to scratch at Boba, terrified that he'll blow out the back of your throat. He damned well _should_ , and you both know it, but you're both still playing this game of power and submission, and you thank the stars that Boba clearly isn't tired of it yet.

Peering down at you with palpable dislike he removes the blaster from your mouth and tilts your chin back with the wet tip of it until you squeak, "I've been in those pits a dozen times and got out fine, and I'm just a little girl."

You sense the bounty hunter relax slightly, mollified by your phrasing.

"Hmm," says Boba. "Not all of us have a guard dog like Raxis Tantu."

He shoves at your chin one final time with the blaster then releases you, stalking back to his seat.

"I want three more sets of co-ordinates. Get talking."

Still tasting gunmetal and your own rancid fear you reel off more locations. They're only slightly less dangerous than the first three, but they seem to satisfy Boba for he nods and gestures for you to sit in the passenger seat. He snaps the cuffs back on your wrists, handling you so roughly that you have to hold back a yelp.

"If I don't find Mruragri it'll be on your head," says Boba. "You're on thin ice, girl."

The threat makes that dark, guilty excitement shudder through your torso, and you feel a sudden, horrifying gladness that Boba won't die today, that this twisted battle of wills might continue a little longer. You wonder if what he's done has broken something in you, or if your mind and body are merely trying to protect you from the crash of misery and depression that are likely to follow in the wake of what he has done.

"You'll find him," you say, softly.

Boba doesn't answer, turning away to navigate the first location.

The flight to Tatooine is long and mostly silent, the wait for Boba to return from the drug den you've directed him to even more so. Boba leaves you cuffed with bathroom access, the other doors locked impenetrably against you. You pace up and down, staving off your hunger with sips of stale-tasting water. Part of you hopes that Boba finds himself outnumbered and outmatched, shot to pieces by whichever nefarious beings lie in wait. But if he _does_ you'll have no way of escaping this ship, left to starve to death in a veritable tin can.

Then, at long last, Boba returns, entering the ship almost silently while you lie on your back on the bathroom floor, soothed by the dripping faucet into a half-doze to catch up on those lost hours of sleep. You jerk awake to him standing in the doorway, the scratched green beskar stained with remnants of blood.

"First time lucky," says Boba, as you open your mouth to question him. "Well done, princess. You saved your own neck."

Terror scores down your back like a knife blade as you imagine Mriragri folding onto the stained floor of the den, Death Stick still between his lips. He wasn't a bad man, as far as the Family's contacts went, and you can imagine the implosion his loss has already triggered in the criminal underworld.

"Get up," says Boba. "You must be hungry. I'll get you something."

Groaning, you straighten up and follow Boba into the control room. He's produced a few rolls of bread and tinned meat from somewhere; you're so hungry that you eat it standing up, with your fingers, only noticing that Boba is watching when you finish and glance up to mutter your thanks.

"I'll find you something better if you start behaving yourself," says Boba. "Bet you're not used to that, _are_ you, your Majesty?"

He watches you closely, preventing you from showing even the slightest hint of it, but he's right; it repulses you that you're expected to simper and scrape for the merest thing.

"But you've been a bad girl, haven't you?" says Boba, his voice turning grim. "You're overdue a punishment for that shit you tried to pull with the co-ordinates. Come here."

 _Comply, comply, comply_ , your mind screams, but you can't bear the indignity of it. You stand, rigid, staring at Boba as the taste of bread and meat turns to filth in your mouth.

"Fine," says Boba. "I'll come and _get_ you."

You don't even have time to turn for the door as he seizes hold of you and flattens you, face-first, against the wall.


	3. Lecherous, Kindless Villain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter notes at the end

You stand, rigid with terror, as Boba holds you against the wall, your face pressed to it so that you can't turn to look at him, can't determine what he intends for you. He is completely silent, but you _feel_ his bulk lowering behind you, smell blood, sweat, dirt, and blaster emissions on his clothes. The leather of his right glove creaks on the back of your neck, while the left opens flat on your lower back and pushes so deeply into the flesh that it's more like being _bitten_ than being held.

"I'm sorry, Boba," you say, in a low voice, trying not to provoke his anger any more than you have already. "I said I was sorry. _Please_ don't do this."

Still he doesn't answer. He's trying to draw out your fear and panic, watching you devour yourself in your foolish attempts to earn his favour. You try to step away from the wall, but Boba moves a boot between your legs, ramming them apart. Your arms, cuffed behind your back, butt at the icy beskar, and you feel blood coat your fingers.

"Boba-"

"Quiet."

He sounds so cold that you can almost feel the word in your own mouth like a pebble in snow.

"Don't hurt me," you say. "Don't make me-"

"Do you understand Basic?"

"Yes."

"Then mouth _shut_."

The menace in his voice makes you feel limp with fear. You give up on trying to placate him, intuiting that the safest way to avoid Boba's rage is to let it run its course; closing your eyes you fall still, feeling Boba's helmet press close to your hair.

"What _I_ want to know," he says. "Is why you'd try to get me killed on a mission when I'm your best chance of life. Seems like something an ungrateful slut would do."

You feel yourself start to shiver, your teeth chattering, biting your tongue so hard that it bleeds.

"I know you want me gone," says Boba. "But any sane person would wait til they have a get-away on the horizon before they try it. Know what would have happened if I'd died out there?"

The hand on the back of your neck squeezes, and you gulp your panic down.

"You'd have been _stuck_ here until some scavenger plundered my ship. And scavengers are not nice fucking people. You would have been killed or sold into slavery. Funny thing is, I think you _knew_ that."

There is a pause, and you hear your own breath shuddering pathetically through your teeth like the chuffing of an engine.

"So what was _that_ about, eh?" asks Boba. "Are you just reckless, or were you so desperate for attention you had to fuck up to get it?"

"No," you whimper. "No, I just didn't _think_ -"

"Right. You don't seem to do a lot of thinking, do you, princess? Head's empty. You're just a stupid slut, keen to be corrected."

The words make your ruined breathing hack and choke and bluster. You wonder if Boba speaks to other female captives like this, or only _you_. It's the impression he gave, before; he is too ruthlessly intelligent to leave such a reputation behind in the mouths and minds of those who survive his keep. He _cannot_ let his enemies believe that any woman might sway him from his work.

Which means that Boba most likely doesn't intend to let you leave this ship alive.

The thought petrifies you, and still there is something about the crude, mocking turn of his talk that makes the space between your thighs swell with a red and delirious heat.

"You understand the rules here," said Boba. "Don't you, little girl?"

Suppressing a groan you utter the now-hated phrase, the one that seems to entertain him the most.

"Yes, _Daddy_."

 _Kriff_ , you wish you'd never let that fucking word leave your mouth. It's so humiliating, uttered between two adults, both of whom wish each other dead. But there's a black, twisted eroticism of a like you've only read in stories stored in a locked datapad in the palace, stories you would have rather died than allow anyone else to see.

You feel Boba's left hand trace your side, moving to the round of your hip.

"You understand your role," he says. "So why _push_ me, huh?"

You don't have an answer. It would be _so_ much easier to be completely mute and passive except when he speaks to you, to take his cock when he asks, to be a _good_ little captive. Fighting is only getting you hurt.

"You're a little brat," growls Boba. "Starved of discipline. You had your father wrapped about your little finger."

"Boba-"

"-Got handed everything you wanted. You _won't_ get it from me."

He lifts the back of the shirt and forces a hand roughly against you, gloved fingers tracing a line from your cunt to your ass that makes you jolt in uneasy response. There's something _else_ to all this that Boba isn't telling you, you sense, a grudge, perhaps, a motive you can't guess at while he's manipulating your body like this.

"Why do you hate me?" you ask, through gritted teeth.

" _Hate_. Ha."

Boba grinds your face sideways into the wall, then releases your head, his fingers smoothing the back of your hair almost gently.

"You assume I _think_ about you enough to hate you."

"You think about me enough to torture me. _This_ is not your style."

" _Torture_ , is it?"

The bounty hunter brings a finger, slick with your juices, and thrusts it between your lips, making you taste yourself.

"Then what kind of sick little slut are _you_ to enjoy it?"

You growl with wretched frustration as Boba brings his hand down to your sopping cunt and thrusts three of his vast fingers within you. It horrifies you that he's _right_ , that there's some starving hole in you that needs to be beaten and cursed and praised. You fight against it and you wallow in it all at once.

"Never would have known," sneers Boba. "You looked as pure as some Priestess every time I saw you in that damned palace. What did you think of me, girl?"

"I- I was afraid of you."

You whimper, trying not to cry as Boba moves his fingers to your other hole and begins to thrust in and out. The squirming, squeezing sensation of him inside you is unpleasant, but you feel yourself _wanting_ it, too.

"Afraid of _what_ , eh? That I'd cover your mouth and fuck you against the wall with the Family in another room?"

Boba's left hand clamps over your mouth, making you smell and taste the filthy leather. The other unclips the beskar codpiece and guides his hard cock towards your buttocks, pushing inside you inch by painful inch.

"You _wanted_ me to fuck you."

Wild pain and pleasure and terror shatter through you like a hurricane through a temple. You scream against Boba's glove, and beg indistinctly for him to stop.

"No," he grunts. " _Never_. You belong to me, little whore."

You've never felt pain _like_ it, so great that you arch your back and bellow against Boba's hand as he fucks you. He falls silent again, for a time, taking your clitoris between two fingers and teasing you until you start to feel something good amidst your torment.

"Try have me killed again," Boba says, through growling breaths. "And I'll break your neck. I can afford to turn down your father's credits, you know."

One scream after another jolts from your throat as Boba ploughs you, and you'd do _anything_ to peel away from him, to throw yourself, sobbing into some corner. But you're trapped between him and the wall, muscle and metal pinning you like a painting in its frame.

Boba lets go of your mouth and you gasp lungfuls of oxygen down.

" _Hate_ ," you keen, leaving the statement half finished. "I hate-"

"Good," leers Boba, and lets go of your clitoris just as your orgasm spills, spoiling it, _flattening_ it into a wisp of a thing. "Stops things getting complicated."

With a few more furrowing thrusts the bounty hunter fills you with his climax, the final slam of his hips bottoming out with brutal force. Almost at once he allows you to fall, uttering a sound of sneering dismissal.

"Thank the Maker you're nice to look at," says Boba. "Because you're _pathetic_."

He leaves the cockpit, no doubt to shower himself and to clean his armour, abandoning you where you lie on the floor, caught up in little spasms of pain. This is _your_ fault, you think, for being so impulsive, so vengeful. You cannot make such a mistake again, or you might never escape this ship. This _man_.

As you quiver silently in your little ball it occurs to your that it is not _you_ Boba has a disagreement with, but the Tantu Family as a business. As much as this feels the most likely option it surprises you- both your father and Grandfather, the previous king, have selected Boba's services above all others, and despite the bounty hunter's distaste for the Family's occupation you've never known them to dispute.

You would have heard talk of it, noticed unrest as you observed daily palace life like a watchful bird in a gilded cage. What has happened that _you_ have not seen? Is the Family even aware of it? Why is Boba keeping you alive, hurting you, warping you; have you merely been caught in the crossfire of some private conflict or does he think you embedded within it, playing the feckless girl to protect yourself?

You're not sure that you dare ask. Sometimes the less you know is safer, and if Boba's violent moods are anything to go by then _safe_ is all that you can handle.

Some hours later you hear a door slide open as Boba returns.

"Head down," he says, curtly. "You've not earned the right to see my face yet."

You move your eyes upwards as far as your low vantage point will allow, taking in soft shoes, black robes, the first hint of some humanity under the beskar.

"You wanna sleep in a bed tonight?" asks Boba.

His tone is softer, so you know it's not a trick, but you don't understand _why_ he'd offer you something that, in your current position, is surely a luxury.

"I'm not gonna fuck you again," says the bounty hunter. "I'm an old man. I don't have the stamina."

You bleat out a laugh, but you don't move; you're not sure that you can.

"Then _why_?" you ask.

"I want your intel. No use to me if you're strung out with sleep deprivation."

Disgusted, you close your eyes and draw your quivering limbs inwards.

"Then I'll stay here."

Boba chuckles, the laugh so much realer without the modulator, but no less threatening.

"Thought you might say that."

He leans down, and before you can react you feel the biting tooth of a needle in your neck and plunge into narcotic darkness.

You wake alone in a small, plain room, thankfully alone. Gingerly you pat the pillow beside you, but it's impossible to tell whether or not Boba slept beside you. You suppose he must have done. The idea of him beside you, thick and muscled and silent in the gloom makes you want to bury your head under the bedcovers and never emerge.

But this isn't the palace, where you could lock yourself in your room to evade life's problems, or life on the run, where you fled on and off half a dozen worlds every time you felt a prickling at the back of your neck.

If you want to survive you need to keep Boba interested, which means making yourself _present_.

After showering yesterday's sweat off your body and changing into another black shirt that's been left for you in the bathroom you enter the cockpit, your mouth already dry with nerves. Boba is speaking to someone over a comlink, so you hover awkwardly, not wanting to anger him by creating noise. The conversation seems nondescript enough, something about ship repairs; you suppose you should have guessed the larger vessel you're on board now isn't the _Slave I_ , the infamous machine that Boba favours and that his marks all dread to see.

When the call ends Boba turns to appraise you, his helmet tilting up and down.

"Well-rested, princess?"

"I've had better nights," you say, keeping your voice toneless, cordial. "I used to ask the servants to bring me spice at the palace sometimes to help me sleep. Have you tried it, Boba?"

Boba doesn't move, but you sense him dissecting the words, trying to determine whether you're merely being smart-mouthed or if you're rooting for sympathy.

"I don't permit that junkie shit on my ship," he says, at last. "Besides, you never struck me as the type."

You cross your arms over your chest, feeling suddenly vulnerable.

"I never wanted to be. Like I keep trying to tell you. I am not _like_ the Family."

" _Aren't_ you?"

Boba produces the datapad and thrusts it at you. Limping slightly you step forward and take it from his hand. The moment your ungloved fingers touch his larger, leather-clad ones you shudder, thinking about how easily he has made you come with them, how cruelly he denied you your orgasm last night. Then you remember how they have beaten you, and every bruise on your body aches in memory.

Scowling, you snatch the datapad and look at the screen. Boba leans back in his seat, massive arms folded, awaiting your response.

" _This_ is your next bounty?" you ask. "Who wants him dead? A rival?"

"That's not your business."

"I'm feeding my father's friends to you. It _is_ my business."

You narrow your eyes at Boba, meeting the black visor as stubbornly as you dare.

"Are there _really_ clients paying you to kill these people or is it a personal vendetta?"

"You think I'd chase high price bounties without collecting for them?"

The bounty hunter shakes his head.

"They're all wanted men. Just so happens that _my_ needs and the clients' meet in the middle."

The feeling of pieces slotting into place is satisfying; you're relieved that your predictions were correct rather than the paranoid, scrambling thoughts of a hostage.

"Harda Pleev has a lot of connections within the slave trade," you say. "And the spice trade, too. If you murder him it won't just be the Tantu Family you rattle."

"All part of the job, sweetheart. I'm used to the heat."

He taps a hand on his thigh, making you jump.

"Enough chatter. Co-ordinates."

"I gave you six locations yesterday," you say, as calmly as possible. "Six. I don't know the co-ordinates to every _kriffing_ criminal in the galaxy. I'm not a droid."

"Close enough," says Boba. "Your father once boasted that he had you enhanced with a memory chip to make you more useful to the business. Raxis Tantu is a big talker, but he isn't a liar."

 _Maker_. You feel clammy to think that your father spoke of such a thing so openly amongst guests, as if you were some _pet_ and not his daughter. Boba clearly sees the hurt in your eyes for he leans forward in interest and says, "So it's true. Give me the locations, metalhead."

"It doesn't work like that," you snap. "I still have to memorise things like everyone else. Mruragri; he was different. I _liked_ him. I didn't _mind_ going to visit him. But Harda- I've only met him once or twice. That was enough. And I try not to remember it."

You hold out the datapad and shake your head.

"I can't find him for you. And I'm not lying. I wouldn't care if he died. I just don't know where he is."

For a moment you think Boba will hit you, or cut you down with another cruel remark. But he only takes the datapad from you and studies you levelly, seemingly intrigued by this new display of emotion.

"What did he do to you, eh?"

"Nothing."

"A really big nothing to have you so worked up."

You turn you back to him, looking longingly at the durachrome doors leading to the bathroom and the bedroom. All you want is to lie down and close your eyes against the world.

"He didn't fuck me, if you want to know. That sin is all yours."

"And you've sinned right along with me, little girl."

That foul, erotic heat simmers inside you again, but it's dampened by thoughts of Harda Pleev, of so many of the horrors you've tried so hard to escape.

"Hey," says Boba. "Come here."

Slumping your shoulders miserably you swivel and return to Boba, who despite his usual aura of cold menace seems to be relenting slightly in the face of this new threat.

"I'll find Pleev," he says. "Might take me a few days, is all."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" you snap. "Comfort from a hired killer?"

"No," says Boba. "Just reminding you that while your intel speeds things up you're not necessary. You're just _play_ to me."

Still, you sense a curious pull from him, and you fidget, torn between maintaining some semblance of poised coldness and feeding him the information he wants. In the end you say nothing, only hover awkwardly until Boba reaches out with one hand and tugs you towards him, running the thick fabric of your shirt between his fingers.

"I should get you something pretty to wear," he croons, his hand gliding down to cup your waist with its largeness. "I used to like that gauzy shit you wore in the palace. Could see right through it."

His thumb caresses your hipbone, and you hiss out a fluttering gasp.

"What would be the _point_ if you're just going to ruin it?" you mutter, thinking of the red velvet he ripped between your breasts on the control deck.

"Maybe that's what I wanna do," says Boba, and you hear the grin in his voice. "Don't tell me you wouldn't love it."

You try to lean away from him, part repulsed by his talk, and yet titillated. It doesn't surprise you that this is what stirs you; all your life you've bent beneath the will of men and still none have dared to take you into hand like Boba. It's cruel and unfair, and you won't accept it, won't let him turn you into some eyelash-fluttering moll, folding to his every whim.

"I've never wanted anything from you but my freedom," you say, your lips pulled into a sneer.

Boba draws you in by the waist again.

"Well, girl, you're not earning your keep. You either give me information, or you open your legs. Otherwise you're just dead weight."

His hand slides over your buttocks, and you stiffen, even that mild touch sparking pain.

"And I don't think you're ready to go again so soon."

Tightening your jaw you look at the datapad again, reminding yourself of the ugly, hack-jawed man of the face on the screen.

"You called me metalhead," you say. "Well, it could be worse. Some people used to implant chips into slaves' brains that would explode if they tried to escape. Harda Pleev- oh, he was smarter than that. The chip he puts into his slaves makes it look like they die of natural causes. A quiet little death nobody would ever question. I was always afraid-"

Pausing to collect yourself you glance into Boba's visor, so flat, so dark, so pitiless.

"I was always afraid that mine might be something like that," you finish. "But I'm still here, so I guess not."

"Nice little sob story you've got there," says Boba, unmoved. "So. Where can I find your monster?"

A throb of anger ebs through you; every time you think you find something human in this man's heart his selfish core rises up again. In silence you give Boba some addresses, ports and auction houses that you know in your heart will yield. Boba hasn't built his reputation from nothing, and if he means to take Harda then he'll scythe him like a farmer to wheat.

"Good girl," says Boba. "And all of them right here on Tatooine. Halves my work, now doesn't it?"

He pushes you away, clearly in the mood to begin the day's hunt. To your dismay Boba takes the comlink and datapad away so that you can't access them in his absence, glancing at you as he does so as if to dispel any thoughts of mischief.

You feel despondent at the idea of another long day of waiting for Boba to return. Again you think of spice, the way it took you from ugly life into a dull, perpetual dream.

You have to get out of here. Stick to the plan. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I'm putting in an author's note here as my comments are in absolute disarray at the minute ffs 😂😂 behave or I'm turning anon comments off! I MEAN IT *bonk*
> 
> Skip this if you're not interested in me explaining the story or rambling about my life lol
> 
> People are VERY disappointed this isn't a fluffy romance, but I put a shit load of tags from the start to try and discourage fluff readers starting to read this then being like GODDAMN WHERE'S THE ROMANCE because that's never been something I've wanted to write ahaha, there are tons of stories in that vein already under this tag go play in their yard 😛
> 
> Will there be some, dare I say, softer moments in this story? Yeah cause it's Daddy related, and Boba isn't a complete thunder cunt in canon, but I'm not gonna sell it as some kind of wild romance. It's not gonna be as bleak and depressing as I think some of the anons are concerned either but I know what I like and I'm writing it I guess!
> 
> I've always written darkfics/horror fics as a genre. I grew up reading Clive Barker and Graham Masterton and other erotic horror type content so this has kinda always been my jam!! Not that this fic is really horror?? Just dark I guess but explaining my backstory. I dunno what to tell y'all, noncon is one of the most popular fantasies and it's mine even though I'm in a happy relationship 😅 I'm also a sex worker so you know, consent is key, use a safe word blah blah blah 
> 
> Anyyyyway long story short, I am sorry if people were hoping I was gonna write a romance but it's not gonna be that cut and dry!! Like I feel like that meme of the veiny forehead kid trying not to spoil my own story right and left lollll BUT anyway this is something I need to get out there so people don't get upset with me!


	4. My Fear Is So

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one is late compared to the others 🥰 enjoy
> 
> I decided not to give in to the fluffy people sorry about it 😂 If anyone leaves any more daft comments I'll simply not approve them 🤫

You wait fretfully for Boba to return, pacing the ship until your calves burn with the effort of walking and your shirt is soaked through with a thin sheen of sweat. For hours you've been tirelessly rehearsing what to say to him, fervent lies to plead your case for freedom; you're going have to throw all sense of dignity and ethics to the winds to get off this ship and, ultimately, see your tormentor dead.

You have no choice. It's either _this_ or break the wooden handle of the toothbrush the mercenary gave you into a shiv, and as tempting as it might be to pierce the soft hollow of his throat while he sleeps you doubt a mere splinter will be enough to end Boba Fett.

Besides, he removes it from the bathroom whenever he leaves; this man has seen every possible attempt on a life that exists and prepares thoroughly for them all.

When at last Boba re-enters the ship you rush to meet him, your cuffed hands chafing restlessly together. The bounty hunter ignores you outright, striding directly towards the pilot seat. His cape brushes against your ankles as he passes, making you wince in distaste.

"Your mission was a success?" you venture.

Of course it was; Boba Fett does not fail.

Already seated, the bounty hunter turns his head, his helmet expressing only intangible cold.

"You're welcome. No more death chips from _his_ corner of the world."

A trickle of cold relief touches you, but there is no time to enjoy it. You step forward cautiously, trying to determine Boba's mood before you begin your spiel. It's like trying to gage some ancient star, whether it will burn softly or expand into red and terrible light.

"I'm surprised that your father didn't put a tracker in you as well as that memory chip," says Boba, just as you're opening your mouth.

"He wouldn't," you say, stiffly. "He's too proud. Doing something like that would have been like admitting there could ever be unrest in the family."

"Little did he know."

You twitch uncomfortably, not knowing how to respond.

"Took me aback, too, you know," says the mercenary, and he touches your chin, the pads of his fingers gritty with sand. "Never took you for a rebel, little wallflower. You're a bit of a dark horse, aren't you?"

"Boba," you say, trying to level your voice, the conversation, steering it back into your small plane of control. "I have a proposition for you."

With that the bounty hunter is suddenly alert, his interest sparking like a live wire.

"Proposition, eh? Spoken like a true gangster. Name it."

You feel your mouth drying, your pulse beating in your throat.

"You're giving me a chance. I thought-"

"Doesn't mean I'll accept it," says Boba. "Just interested to see what's on the table that you didn't think to mention a couple of days ago."

"Myself," you say, instantly. "My services. In your employ."

Boba's head cranks at a skeptical angle.

"What makes you think I need a stupid girl hanging around?"

"You- you've worked with accomplices before," you babble. "I've heard the stories. I can feed you more intel, contacts, weapon sellers, figureheads in the spice trade- besides, I have other talents. I've spent years in education. I speak four languages. If you don't return me to the Tantu Family I'll- I'll serve you for the rest of my life."

False though they are it physically pains you to speak the words; an allyship could have been the ideal outcome had this man not taken you up on your idiotic advances. Now you'd rather eat bantha fodder for eternity than bind yourself to Boba _willingly_ , but you're fast realising that you're going to have to play the long con to slither out of your bonds.

The bounty hunter gazes at you for such a long time that you almost wish that you _hadn't_ spoken. His distrust is as thick and as weighted as lead, and the longer he doesn't speak the more you feel him dissecting you, cell by cell.

"The only thing I ask for is that I'm no longer your prisoner," you say, squirming under Boba's scrutiny. "I'll be a colleague. Business cannot be operated in shackles, and-"

"You've managed just fine, so far," Boba cuts in, at last. "Can't trust a brat who wants me dead. Mob royalty, no less."

He turns away again, the t-shiped visor as opaque and ambiguous as ever.

"But it makes no sense to drag me around on this ship for the rest of my life," you protest. "I'll be in the way."

"Said I'd keep you a few days. Didn't say forever."

"But a few days have already been and gone and I'm still here. Honour your own words, _please_ , Boba. Set me free."

You stare wretchedly at the dented beskar, wishing that you could understand this man. There is enough human in Boba to have released at least _four_ of his quarry, by his own insinuations, enough to have his own moral scruples, few though they are. Perhaps in his eyes there's simply something nothing human enough in you to earn your freedom.

"If you work for me," says Boba, abruptly. "Then I own you."

The words make you feel euphoric with hope, but you cannot lose sight of who you're speaking to, nor the implications of his proposal.

"What does that mean?" you ask.

Boba seizes you by wrist and pulls you close to him. Your bones feel as dainty as grassblades in his fist.

"It means that you'll come to me when I call you. Immediately. You'll do whatever dirty work I ask of you. You will not sneak, steal, or betray me. You will kill at my command. You will die at my command. A tall order for most people and you, princess, are clearly not up to it."

There is a charge between you, a contemptuous heat from him, pure fear and hatred from you, and in between that the desire you're so revolted by, but cannot step free of.

"You still underestimate me," you say. "My capabilities. That was the Tantu Family's mistake."

Boba laughs, and you hear a tiredness in his voice.

"Look, sweetheart. If there's one thing you've proved it's that you're too damned insubordinate to serve me."

"But you- you _like_ it."

You can't _believe_ that you've pushed yourself to say it, but it's a point you knew that you'd have to make, and so you go on, your eyes vast and gleaming in the visor's reflection.

"The way I am with... with you. You like it."

Nothing could taste fouller in your mouth than the phrase 'with you' but you're determined to make this _personal_ , stop him keeping up whatever fence prevents him from seeing you, not an enemy, not a mark, but a _person_.

"I like fucking you," says Boba. "Doesn't mean I'd trust you with business. You'd be a dangerous and expensive liability."

"I've proved myself to be an asset."

"You've proved yourself to be a pain in the arse, and that's about it. Now unless you want to break your neck on takeoff I suggest you sit down. I have errands to run."

All out of options you kneel on the floor beside Boba, reverting back to what you know he responds to. You kiss the grimy beskar of his thigh guards and run your tongue through the dirt, feeling his eyes intent upon you. Even as your throat squeezes and knots on the urge to retch you work your way down, down to his boots and press your lips upon them with the reverence of a favoured slave. You taste sand and the faintest tang of blood.

"Please, Daddy," you force yourself to simper. "Take me out somewhere. Let me prove myself. That you can trust me. I promise I'll be a good girl."

"I doubt it."

Yet somehow without being able to see through the helmet you sense the smirk spreading behind it. Boba gruffly tousels a hand through the back of your hair and gestures to the passenger seat.

"Sit down. Keep your mouth shut for a while and Daddy will think about it."

It worked. You're disgusted and amazed, but you also have to battle down a shriek of victory to think how close your freedom has come- _freedom_ , and opportunity to end the man who has made you his servant. You've already considered which bounty hunters you will call to take him, and have narrowed the list down to two names. They are quick, efficient, and, most importantly, quiet. Word of completed business will not pass their lips unless you command it, giving you time to move far from the perimeters of the Family's reach.

Those names names echo in your head again and again as Boba lands the ship and rises to his feet, gesturing for you to follow.

"You're going to be very quiet and speak only when spoken to," he tells you. "Disobey me and you can forget any sort of agreement. You are still my quarry and will be until the Family withdraws the bounty on your head."

"They'll never do that," you say, thinly.

"Then you'll behave yourself, won't you?"

He hands you a tunic and trousers that just about fit, and the hooded robe you arrived in. After uncuffing your wrists to allow you to dress Boba runs over his arsenal weapons. Watching from the corner of your eye you feel a renewed judder of fear to realise exactly how many tools of death are concealed on his person: rockets at his wrists, darts in his knee pads, rifles, blasters, strapped or cleverly concealed all about him. You swallow dryly, thinking how lightly you got off with a blow to the head; Boba could have torn you apart when he captured you, had he been so inclined.

"Keep your hood up and don't look anyone in the eye," says the mercenary, breaking you from your thoughts. "Draw attention to me and you'll be in a whole new world of trouble."

"Yes, sir," you mutter.

You're twitching with desperation to taste fresh air, hear other people's voices, so much so that your barely listening. Only when Boba's hand wraps abruptly about your throat do you snap back to attention, your eyes locking with the helmet's fathomless visor again.

"Your father might not have been smart enough to put a tracker on you," says Boba. "But I know your game, little girl. You'd run for the hills if I gave you half a chance. With this, it won't matter where you scurry to. I'll see your location."

There is something cold and hard around your neck; a collar, locked as tight as the binders had been. Your hands fly to it it in dismay.

"I didn't agree to this. I'm not a pet."

"You're whatever I want you to be, princess. Lose the ego."

Boba runs his hand along the collar, jerking it so that you choke and whimper in a moment of sudden terror.

"Yes, Daddy," you gasp.

He releases you, and turns towards the door. Like a beaten dog you skulk in his wake, your thoughts tangling amongst each other without end.

Your first step outside is bittersweet- the darkening sky seems incredibly vast and beautiful, the sand crunching under your boots a sound as welcome as the clinking of credits. But you know _damned_ well that you won't be escaping Boba today, not while he's aware of you every move; the best you can do is try to access a phone to make your call to at least one of those savoured names, but Boba doesn't make it easy for you.

He visits a weapons dealer, then an armourer to seek a minor repair, both holed up in dingy, middle-of-nowhere locations even more barren than the ship. You wait restlessly as Boba goes through the motions of trade, praying that his next errand takes you through a more _civilised_ area.

"Who's the broad?" asks the armourer, leaning over his counter to peer at you, narrow-eyed. "She don't look like a merc."

"She's a rookie," says Boba, dismissively. "I did her family a favour by taking her in. If she can't kill then I'll find some other use for her."

The armourer grins at the obvious implications, and you tug your hood angrily down over your face. You've long known the objectification that comes with being female in the criminal underworld, although your status in the Family once protected you. Now you see that standing beside Boba only opens you up to humiliation and ridicule, and you can tell from the arrogant sway in Boba's walk as he shunts past you for the door that he's enjoying your discomfort.

"Cheer up, princess," says Boba. "Not the first time you've been Daddy's arm candy."

"I thought you didn't want me to draw attention to you."

"This kind isn't so bad."

Grudgingly you follow Boba into a city centre, tempted to take your chances against him and run headlong into the crowd. But you keep your restraint, trusting that the Maker will present a better opportunity if you keep your head. You notice people glancing at the bounty hunter as he passes, some pulling nervously away, others- mostly women -drawn to him, curious about the man behind the mysterious green mask. Some of them look you up and down too, and you wish that you could dissolve like sand into the wind rather than be associated with Boba Fett.

"You've done well, little girl," says the mercenary, just loud enough for you to hear him. "How does a hot meal and a drink sound as a reward?"

You seethe at his patronising tone, then notice the cantina looming through the dusty winds ahead of you.

"A reward, or an excuse to pursue business?" you reply, cynically. "The watering hole is where all the animals go to drink."

"Watch that mouth, brat," says Boba, with that thin line of warning in his voice. "Don't think being in public will stop me punishing you. It won't."

 _That_ silences you; the thought of him bending you over some drink-sopped table and fucking you in front of a room full of leering down-and-outs is nothing short of disturbing. You remain quiet as you enter the bar and sit beside Boba at the back of the room, penned in between him and the wall. He neither looks at you nor speaks, but you sense a shift in temperament that makes you afraid to even glance up from the grimy tabletop, let alone take in the fact that you are in a cantina without a Family consort for the first time in your life.

Carefully you survey the room, counting the exits, of which there are two, front and back, and locate the women's restroom, marked by a queue of chatting females of numerous species against one wall. If anything goes wrong you at least have options to bolt to.

As you scan the walls for any hint of public communication a server pushes a bowl of stew and a mug of strong-smelling alcohol across the table towards you. Your stomach has been so turned by nerves that you can't bear the thought of eating, but you tackle it anyway, afraid of raising Boba's suspicions. The alcohol you do not touch; your mind must remain clear, alert, focused.

A woman approaches the table, elegant and beautiful with dark hair coiling over one shoulder in a single braid. Forgetting Boba's warning you lock eyes with her, seeing a question there, and stare in wild hope that she's here to help you. But then the woman laughs and says, "You didn't mention that you'd be bringing your _friend_ along with you."

Boba pinches your cheek roughly. You freeze in your seat, feeling like a bird in the sights of a lothcat.

"She twisted my arm," sneers Boba. "Says she wants to work for me."

The woman arches her brows.

"A likely story. I take it you've decided to hold onto her as insurance, then."

"You know how I operate."

"Of course: all bases covered, not a detail forgotten. The Family certainly won't make a move against you if their precious princess is in your lap."

"Wouldn't get far if they did. The mercs they hire aren't worth the price of a blaster round. But let them come."

A rod of adrenaline shanks your spine and you sit bolt upright, your knees jiggling anxiously under the table. You notice the woman's dark eyes flicker across your face.

"Does she know her father tried to have you killed?"

With an amused grunt Boba peers down at you, making you feel as small and stupid as a child.

"Well, Shand, if she didn't before then she does now."

You stare from the lovely, coldly amused face to the blank green helmet, feeling perspiration bolt out of every pore under your clothes.

"I- that can't be true," you stammer out. "Boba, I- you're always- why would my father call you to find me if he wanted you dead?"

"Think about it, little mouse," says Shand, taking a seat opposite you and leaning across the table. "What better way to cover your tracks than continue to hire the very same man you want to put in the ground?"

You clutch the mug of alcohol and take a hazardous gulp, needing to take the edge off your fear and confusion.

"It might _almost_ have been clever if the Family hadn't placed other hits on several of Boba's associates in recent months," Shand continues. "Myself continued. As you can see, not all of them were successful."

"Damned reckless arrogance," Boba comments. "They left trails more obvious than a forest fire in all directions."

"That, and the merc that shot at me spilled his secrets," says Shand. "And without _any_ persuasion from me. Some people become very talkative when they feel their end approaching."

"But why?" you ask, turning to Boba. "What have you done to anger my family?"

He doesn't dignify you with an answer, snorting his derision.

"You're naive, for a gangster's daughter," mocks Shand. "Where did they keep you all this time, in a glass box like a precious doll? Boba has done _nothing_ but take his rightful place on Jabba the Hutt's old throne, and your father feels _threatened_ by a new king rising. He is deathly afraid that he will lose everything he inherited- the money. The title. The palace. Influence. _And_ you."

Tears slip down your face, and beneath the table you feel Boba's hand slide across your thigh and squeeze tight, the leather squeaking against the fabric of your trousers. You try to edge away against the wall, but you remember the concealed weapons all over Boba's person and understand that you might as well be held at knifepoint.

"We will take everything Raxis Tantu has," Shand continues. "To settle his debts, you understand."

"Seems like the fairest course of action," says Boba. "Considering the sizeable sum he owes. Wasn't bluffing when I said you were an expensive nuisance, princess."

You squeeze your eyes shut, overcome with the need to deny what is so obviously the truth. These people would gain nothing from lying to you; you'd be dead already if your life wasn't worth at least something to them.

"I'm sorry," you say. "I'm so sorry, I didn't know, my father didn't tell me any of this, I swear it. I'm nothing like him, that's why I ran, I told you-"

"Hey," says Boba, icily, and your mouth shut like a trap. "You remember what I said, princess?"

Your voice has reached such a strained pitch it cuts through the music blaring from a live band at the other side of the room, and you feel people glancing over, wondering if a spat is breaking out.

"You told me not draw attention to myself," you whisper. "I'm sorry, Daddy."

Again Shand's eyebrows shoot up to her hairline.

"' _Daddy_ '". I've heard a lot of pitiful things come out of the mouths of quarry but _this_ \- what _have_ you done to her, Boba?"

The bounty hunter's hand on your thigh slithers upwards, into your trousers, and presses against you, trapped flat against your cunt by the constrictive fabric. You supress a squeak, horribly aware of how many people fill this room who could easily see your face redden beneath your hood, smell the musk of your unwanted arousal in the air.

"You haven't seen anything yet," growls Boba. "Spill her drink, Fennec. Make it look like an accident."

"Oh?" says Shand, curiously, but she reaches out as if to smooth a frond of your hair into your hood and dashes the mug of alcohol across the table instead. Liquid runs in all directions, dripping into your lap, into Boba's, into Shand's, gold and shimmering.

"You're _clumsy_ , little girl," Boba says to you. "Lick it up."

His fingers curl against your clitoris and you bite your lip against a tight, pleasured cry- or is it a sob? You can't be sure. Fennec Shand's dark eyes shine at you in the gloom, and you notice the flash of desire there.

"People will see," you protest.

Boba's touch becomes rough, almost painful, and at your waist you feel the cold, snub-nosed push of a blaster.

"Do what I fucking say."

You shake your head, the idea of such humiliation making you feel faint.

"Don't make me force you, brat. I'll break your nose on that kriffing table. It'll ruin your looks."

Gulping down your tears you lower your face to the spreading puddle and lap at the spilled alcohol, feeling repulsed that you've been lowered to this. You pray to the Maker that the bounty hunters won't force you to crawl under the table and lick the waste from between their legs; you imagine sucking booze from the length of Boba's cock, Shand's fist in the back of your hair, guiding your clumsy tongue between her folds.

The only thing that stops you falling completely apart is the thought that after you've played the bounty hunters' games you'll be able to slip away and call for help, any help, as ineffectual as it might be.

"That's a good slut," says Boba, and flicks a finger in just the right motion to make you come upon his hand, like a trained whore, your climax running through your body in electric spasms.

" _Maker_ ," Fennec breathes. "You've broken her."

"Or rebuilt her," says Boba. "Wouldn't be the first woman at this table I've put back together."

You sense something pass between the two of them over your bowed head, an understanding, mutual attraction and respect you'll never know. It makes you feel sick.

"Can I go to the restroom, please?" you ask, lifting your dripping face from the table.

You're not sure whether you'll have a better chance appealing to Shand or Fett, so you look at neither of them, your eyes downwards, watching the booze drip off the edge of the table onto the grimy floor.

"You're not done here," says Boba, and suddenly one of his arms is around you, scooping you away from the wall, into his lap.

To anyone else in the bar you'd look like an amorous couple, or a tired bounty hunter finding his fun in some cheap cantina girl, and there's a little truth in both, you think, grimly, although more so in the latter. You feel Boba push your trousers down under the cover of your cloak, pushing any cumbersome armour aside so that he can thrust his member into you surreptitiously in the sheltered darkness of your corner.

His modulated breath, although quiet, is coarse and ragged, and again you edure the nauseating comprehension that cold revenge engorges him as much as your body does.

"Such a little whore," Boba groans. "Letting Daddy fuck you like this."

He moves so slowly that nobody would notice unless they were paying close attention, and they're not, too drunk or having too much fun to care. Only Fennec Shand sees, her expression one of coy amusement and arousal. She leans in and kisses you on the lips, softly, slowly, her tongue on yours sending an ache through you unlike any you've ever known.

"We should share her, one of these nights," Fennec says, to Fett, then, smirking, she rises from the table. "I'm getting a drink. Another for your butter-fingered princess?"

"You'll spoil her rotten," quips Boba.

Again, again, he thrusts within you, and you quiver with shame to think how callously he and his beautiful friend think of you, merely a pawn in their match of killing and dominion.

"I need pretty things to decorate my palace with," Boba murmurs to you, his length grinding into you. "Seems like a better use for you than putting you to work. I'd hate to see you ruined with scars."

You try to scramble out of his lap, but his hold on you clamps tighter than a dragon's jaw and your motions do nothing except grind him further within you. He fills you so completely that every breath that snarls from between your lips is a sound of reluctant ecstasy.

"I'll take you in front of my court," says Boba. "Make every onlooker want you."

His girth makes your cunt ache, stretching you far beyond your limits. The slowness of his thrusts is like torture, and you want to grind against him to get this over with, but you don't want to look wanton, like the whore-pet he so wants you to be. You brace your palms against the wet tabletop and let out tiny, near-soundless cries as Boba's cock bottoms out within you in pitiless repetition.

As Fennec Shand returns to the table you feel the mercenary reach his peak within you, although he is so silent and restrained that you're quite certain only you and Shand are aware of what has occurred. Hot wetness brims you and begins to soak your trousers, another stain that mercifully will not show on the black fabric. The embarrassment of it is paralysing, and only Shand's cool, knowing smirk breaks you from your helpless state.

"The restroom-"

"Go," says Boba, shoving you off his lap and letting you totter to your feet. "Clean yourself up, you dirty little bitch."

 _Maker_ , the language he uses does something malicious to your body, your mind, making you crave that gravelly voice at your ear, the ownership, the degradation. For a moment you hover by the table, rapt with the dual emotion of horror and desire.

"Run along, mouse," says Shand. "Unless you're so inept that you require an escort."

Flushing, you walk stiffly to the restroom and barricade yourself into one of the stalls. You hang over the porcelain bowl until you are certain that the illness you feel is not physical but merely the ghost of your shame, then you rest your perspiring forehead on the toilet seat, trying to soothe your panic.

Things were so much simpler when you thought yourself nothing more than an inconvenient bounty. To be caught in the crossfire of a gang war, valued only as a possession, like credits or contraband, will make it so much harder for you to disappear off-world the way you'd planned to. Crouching on the dirty floor you take off the boot with the credits in it and tip half of them out into your palm. There's enough for that phonecall, but you'll have to make it brief.

After washing your hands at the sink your eyes root to an alcove in the wall where a row of beaten-up public phones stand waiting. A Twi'lek woman hovers at the far end, crying into a receiver. She doesn't even glance your way as you scurry over and pluck one of the phones from its cradle, feeding it credits and dialling until a gravelly female voice answers.

"Yen Diarr. Who's calling?"

"I am Raxis Tantu's daughter," you say, softly. "I have a favour to ask. A big one."

"You've come to the right dame, your Highness. What's your problem? Or _who_?"

For a moment you only stand in silence, squeezing the phone in your hand. Then you exhale a long breath and begin to outline your plight.


	5. Slave To Memory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late!! Enjoy Boba and Fennec almost playing good cop/bad cop lol
> 
> TW for drug use/drinking 
> 
> R.M.

The call to assassin Yen Diarr is a short but tense affair. The assassin's voice grows clipped and hard when you speak Boba Fett's name, but still she accepts the bounty; if Diarr succeeds in striking her target the Family can pick up the tab. Your father will seethe at the extra finances you've heamorraged from his account, but if he's really placed as many hits as Shand believes then _you_ are the least of his troubles.

Throughout the conversation you keep an eye on the women filtering in and out of the restroom, keeping your voice so low that nobody will catch the words. Founately you don't need to explain much; Diarr says that she can track your location from the call, and is close enough to follow Boba's trail to its end within a day.

"It's gonna be _messy_ , darlin'," says Diarr, dryly. "Ain't squeamish, are you?"

You think of the guards you paid to have shot down in the palace, stepping over their corpses without glancing down at the torn, smoking flesh underfoot, the squirming guilt of it. Then you remember Boba's gloved hands squeezing your throat, his belt across your ass, his cock grinding climax after climax from your resistant body, and exhale sharply.

"I can handle it. _Please_ hurry. Things are bad out here."

"Yes, Ma'am."

Hanging up, you lean back against the restroom wall, taking another deep, shuddering breath. Fear slams in your heart so violently that for a minute you think you might choke. If this hit fails then Boba is sure to kill you, swiftly and without mercy; that, or put you through a world of pain, should he still wish to keep you as a meat shield against the Family.

You'll have to make another escape in the frey, persuade some welder to remove your tracking collar; if these past few days have taught you anything it's that your bartering skills are second to none.

"Tough call, huh?" asks the Twi'lek girl, who has been hunched by her own phone a few metres away from you all this time.

Glancing across to her you notice her rub tears from her cheeks and feel a stab of sympathy.

"It had to be done," you say, smiling thinly. "What about you? What's _your_ story?"

"A break up," the girl replies, shrugging. "Guess _that_ had to be done, too."

The girl crosses to the row of sinks. After glancing surreptitiously about her she pours a pale substance onto the metal partition between the sinks and leans down to inhale it. Thumbing her nostrils she catches your eye and winks.

"Want some?"

You should refuse- leave Powders with the spice, with the palace, leave everything of that old world behind -but your nerves are so shot that you cave in.

When you leave the bathroom your jaw is tight and you feel buoyant, suddenly glad that you've sanctioned Boba's death. You can scarcely believe how you've been living, crawling and debasing yourself for a bounty hunter's amusement. What the _fuck_ has happened to you, falling from one toxic vice to another, letting yourself be snared as if in the clutches of a Sarlacc?

"Tantu."

Jerking around you find Fennec Shand at your elbow, one of her cool hands closing over your forearm.

"What took you so long, little mouse? _Daddy_ wants you back at the table."

You flinch at the word, so playful, so taunting. She clearly has no issue with the way you're being treated, as in sync with Boba's desires as a religious acolyte. But then that's what the Fett syndicate _is_ , you think: a cult built on the ego of a killer. No wonder Fennec is so devoted to him, and so derisive of you, child of their enemy.

"You can't blame me for wanting to take my time," you say, at last.

Fennec laughs softly, and pushes you towards a wall, lowering her mouth so close to your ear that her lips touch the lobe.

"A word of advice, your Highness. Take some accountability for your situation. Victimhood doesn't suit you."

"But none of this is my fault."

The bounty hunter releases a quick laugh, her breath scented with spotchka.

"Silly mouse. You might not _like_ the life you've been dealt, but you've benefitted from the Family's wealth and influence, and always will, no matter _how_ far you run from your name. You're part of this world, little girl, and you always will be. My advice? If you want to keep your head above water you need to wade at our level."

"You mean _sink_ to it," you say, coldly.

"From what I witnessed at that table I'd say you've already done that."

Shand's left hand trails down your body, reminding you eerily of Boba's blunt caress.

"I'm doing what I need to survive," you protest.

"Oh, really? It seems rather excessive."

The mercenary's breath is warm against your ear, and remembering her kiss you whimper. Fennec is gentler than Boba, but no less menacing. You wonder how many lives the hands on you have snuffed out, and decide that you're better off leaving the question unanswered; any consort of Boba's is likely to be his match.

"Do you really believe that he's going to kill you?" asks Fennec.

"I don't know."

"I think you do. You're aware of Boba's reputation; if death was on the cards he would have shot you on sight."

"I'm not taking any chances."

"Wise, but overcautious."

Fennec's fingers slip into your hair, gliding through it like a blade through silk.

"You're an excellent status symbol, amongst other things. Good for Boba's image, to put a finer point on it. This is all _very_ convenient for the business."

"Oh, I'm sure."

"But you should know that Fett isn't swayed by sex. He's not going to set you free, you know. Despite all the bluster he considers you quite valuable, not something to be thrown away."

Cringing, you try to step sideways out of Shand's hold. Her strength surprises you, her slim body flushing yours with a dangerous grace.

"I am not unsympathetic to your situation, your Highness," says Fennec. "But _stars_ , drop the self-pity."

Emboldened by the buzz of your high you brace your hands against Fennec's front and try to shove her away from you. Her free hand immediately crushes your arms against your chest, but she steps forwards to mask the motion from any onlookers, her lips now touching your cheek.

Briefly you consider screaming, but you know that nobody watching would help you, not when it's so much easier to pretend that a bounty hunter isn't smearing a nameless girl across the cantina.

"I'm looking out for your interests, you know," says Shand. "You've been very clever to concede. Boba seems to find your submission attractive, and it certainly has its charm. But don't _beg_ him for anything. It won't win you any favours, little mouse."

"Then maybe next time he tries to touch me I'll bite like a rat," you say, and Shand releases you from the wall, her dark eyes searching your face with abrupt suspicion.

"So you _do_ have a mouth," says Fennec. "Boba said you were a handful. But then of course you are, or you wouldn't be in this predicament. Move."

She gestures for you to walk ahead of her, lightly slapping your ass as you scuttle by. You push through the throng of people queuing at the bar, the edges of your vision tack sharp, taking in everything around you hungrily. The Powder you ingested is high quality, and it makes you hyper aware of every sound and colour, yet somehow oblivious to them all at once.

You sight Boba's table, making eye contact with the black mystery of his visor. He beckons, and there's something so casually imperious about the gesture that again you feel a giddy rush of glee that within twenty four hours he might be dead on _your_ orders.

A small group of men sits around Boba, all of whom swivel to look at you as you approach. You stop dead, sensing a fresh round of humiliation ahead.

" _Go_ on," says Fennec, shoving you lightly. "You'll only attract more attention if you make a scene."

She strides ahead of you, her lovely profile turning to look back at you.

"Have you _taken_ something, little mouse?" she says, just low enough for you to hear.

You keep your expression deadpan, although you know your eyes are likely as vast as saucers.

"Why? Would it make big boss man angry?"

Fennec shrugs.

"Boba stays mostly clean because inebriation would leave him open to attackers. In you he'll only see it as another weakness."

At any other time this would have been bad news, but to be dismissed in such a way is now to your favour. You follow Fennec to the table and sit beside her, keeping as far from the men present as possible. Boba, however, is unavoidable; he looks from you to Shand and comments, "You two seem to be getting along."

"You could say that," smirks Fennec.

Quiet, you reach for your drink and drain it to the dreggs.

For the majority of the next two hours both Shand and Boba ignore you, except to top up your drink or make some flippant remark. You're used to holding your silence, after all, and the conversation around the table is interesting enough for you to eavesdrop without becoming bored. But you're still wired and keyed up to the point that you feel like the centre of attention, and it's as something hard presses between your legs that you realise that, in some subtle way, you _are_.

The toe of a boot is forced against you crotch, and under the hubbub of talk you hear the telltale jingling of spurs. Your eyes dart to Boba's helmet, but he doesn't break away from the conversation, only presses the boot between your thighs until your clitoris throbs from the contact. The mix of Powder and alcohol in your system makes the sensation exquisite, but you're determined to prove Fennec wrong and remain stoic.

The muscles on either side of your skull twitch and clench as you concentrate on a few names someone has scratched with a knife onto the tabletop, intent on betraying nothing with your expression.

"Under pressure, little mouse?" asks Shand, coyly.

Her hand ghosts your thigh, and you realise that she knows _exactly_ what is happening to you.

"Not at all," you say. "What do you mean?"

Fennec smiles, and you sense that she's slightly impressed.

"Don't tell me you don't want to rub yourself against it," she murmurs from the corner of her mouth. "You're stubborn, but it won't last. You're getting as much out of this as _he_ is."

She braces a hand on the base of your back and shunts you forward, against Boba's boot, and that's when you bring your palm down on the table, jogging all the nearby glasses and flagons to spilling point.

" _Enough_ ," you say.

"The lady speaks," Boba retorts, and for a few brutal seconds he rams his foot so hard against your cunt that you have to squeeze your palm with your fingernails to hold your composure. "I don't take commands from _quarry_."

His foot slowly returns to the floor again, scraping your inner thigh on the way down. Shoving back your chair again you stand, quivering with indignation. The whole table stares at you, half of them grinning, keen to see how the infamous Boba Fett rewards rebellion, the rest watching with a mix of surprise and wary curiosity. Fennec, naturally, is the former.

"Where are you going to run, kid?" asks Boba. "Thought you promised to be a good girl."

You don't answer aloud, only stare defiantly at the green helmet. Snickers of cautious laughter break out across the table.

"I think you've had too much to drink," says Boba. "Or you wouldn't be leaving the table without my permission. Or giving me attitude, come to that."

He snaps his fingers and gestures beside him.

"Thought you didn't have a taste for slaves, Fett," says one of the men as you edge around the table towards him.

"She's not a slave," replies the mercenary. "Can you see any binders on her? No. She's a free woman."

Boba pulls you onto his lap, and you don't resist him; you feel a warning tension in him, like night air before a lightning storm.

"What's gotten into you?" he asks. "Don't get rowdy in front of my employees, brat."

Unseen by the onlookers Boba slips a finger and thumb against some nerve in your inner thigh and twists, the pain so blinding that you cling to the mercenary's beskar to prevent yourself screaming.

" _Fuck_ ," you gasp, through gritted teeth.

"Don't tempt me. Think they'd like a show? You'd look pretty bent naked over this table."

You shake your head.

"I want to leave. You've showed me off already. I've played along. Enough."

Boba lets go of your thigh as quickly as he seized it.

"Her Majesty and her demands. _Fine_. One condition."

Fett nods at Shand.

"She has a room in the city. We're staying there tonight. I want to see you with her."

It's not much of a deal; Fennec is clearly going to fuck you either way, the only difference being the presence of an audience.

"Alright," you say, your voice small and petty.

"That's my girl."

Boba stands up, and Shand mirrors him as if she's been anticipating the motion.

"Time to call it a night," says Fett. "I'll see you all soon enough. If anything interesting comes up you all know how to contact me."

You fall behind him as he leaves the bar, staring at the back of his helmet. The urge to lash out and break into a run is strong, _so_ strong, and foolish. The long con is key to your survival, and you desperately need restraint.

"I wouldn't get any ideas, princess," says Shand, echoing your own thoughts. "I can promise you that it's not worth it."

"Wouldn't worry," says Boba. "She can barely walk in a straight line, let alone make a run for it."

He's right; the alcohol is hitting you harder now the Powder has worn off, but although you've built up quite the tolerance over the years you're as dizzy and numb as you'd set out to be. Still, it's made you so vulnerable, walking between these two predators without a lick of defence.

They escort you to an apartment clearly paid for with the riches of some elite bounty, pure white with black furniture and clear glass, spacious enough for ten people and yet made small and claustrophobic by the expectation hanging over you.

You make to sit down on one of the chairs when Boba snaps at you.

"Oh no you don't, brat. Stay standing."

He circles you as Fennec sidles across to the kitchenette and produces a bottle of spotchka. You think of his helmet riddled with bullets, his beautiful companion blank-eyed and covered with flies. The violent images might comfort you if you weren't aware of yourself swaying on your feet, the knowledge that your violation is about to take a swift downturn.

"Keeping the helmet _on_ , Fett?" asks Shand, dropping into an armchair. "And here I was thinking we were friends."

"It's for the princess," says Boba. "I like keeping her in the dark."

The sound of his vocoder buzzing so close behind you makes you flinch.

"Strip," says Fett, blunty. "Show Fennec what a pretty trophy you are."

Avoiding Shand's intrigued gaze you pull your cloak and shirt off over your head, tangling them in your hair. Then you struggle out of your boots and trousers, feeling idiotic, exposed, only the secret streak of perversion in your heart enthralled by the way the two hired killers observe you.

"And to think you kept all this hidden away all night," says Shand, leaning forwards to look you up and down. "It would have been amusing to see you walk through the cantina like that. You'd have been eaten alive."

Boba steps forward, his muscular body pressing against you from behind. He's _sharing_ you with this woman, the posture seems to say, but it's _him_ you really belong to. He holds you steady as Fennec raises the bottle of spotchka and douses you with it, aiming the stream at your mouth and breasts and stomach. You gasp as it slashes around your feet, blue on the white tiles, as it bounces and rolls over your body, so cold, so _tantalising_.

"Come down here, little mouse," says Fennec, leaning back in her seat.

When you don't move Boba grips you by the back of the neck and shunts you forwards until you are sitting astride Fennec's thighs, your bare cunt against her crotch. The woman leans in to kiss spotchka from your lips, her tongue hot and possessed of a controled hunger as it moves down your throat to your breasts.

You don't know how to respond to her; with Boba it's all violence and brutality, unquestionable mastery, but Fennec is charming and provocative and playful, throwing you off. You well know she'll hit you as hard as Fett if you push her to, but it's hard to imagine when she's treating you like a lover.

" _Such_ a shame that I never sold my services to the Tantus," she comments, rolling your breasts in her palms until you squeak. "I could have had you between my legs at least once a fortnight."

She tries to slip her fingers inside you, but you refuse to rise on your knees to give her access. You're too proud, and besides, you understand by now that she likes a challenge, the lothcat to your little mouse. You'll damned well _give_ her one, at least for some semblance of control.

Boba yanks your head back by the hair, making you scream.

"You must like a bit of rough," he barks. "Since you make me hit you so bloody often. Shand-"

He rams your head forward again.

"-Is my partner. Obey her word as you do mine, little girl."

"Only _don't_ call me Mother," adds Fennec. "'Daddy' at least has a ring to it. My name will do."

She kisses you again, easing her hand between your legs, and you give in, letting her slim fingers enter you and curl against your inner walls with the deftness that has you grudgingly wet at once.

"You're tight, princess," says Fennec, and you decide that you hate her just as much as Boba purely on the basis that she makes you feel so implicit in your own torture.

"Someone's quiet," Boba comments, one of his gloved hands grazing your collarbone. "Having a beautiful woman's fingers inside you shuts you right up. I'll keep that in mind next time you give me shit."

You think you hear the leathery squeak of him removing a glove, but you can't focus because Fennec is sending volts of sensation through you so ecstatic that you find yourself grabbing at her shoulders to hold your balance. She stabs her thumb against your clitoris, the point of her nail making you yip and release her again.

"Keep your hands to yourself, your Grace," she says. "You should know not to lay your hand on a queen without permission."

 _A queen_. Fear and helplessness drag you in breathless circles, but there's nothing you can do except let this bounty hunter mould you to her whims.

Boba's hand, warm, rough, ungloved, wraps your neck from behind- the first time you've felt any uncovered flesh except his cock -and is suddenly squeezing so hard that your vision is black and silver stars and you feel yourself convulse, once, twice, as your orgasm passes through you.

" _So_ easy," says Fennec. "Embarrassing, really. I would have thought an uptight girl like you would be harder to crack. Or was it Daddy's hand on your throat that sent you over the edge?"

You want to hit her, bite the same lips that goad you, that felt so soft and strange upon yours. But you're tired and you're drunk and you don't want to take injury when the likelihood is that soon you'll need your strength and stamina to run again. So when she shoves you to the floor you don't cry out, when she drags her trousers off and parts her legs you only kneel on all fours, head bowed, not wanting to look.

"She's been too good to you," says Boba. "Return the favour."

Words slur from your mouth before you mean them to.

"I don't _want_ to."

"Oh, she's a selfish little one," smirks Fennec, but even without turning around you know that Boba's face is unsmiling.

Before you can move his boot is on the back of your head and _making_ you taste the musk and wetness of the other woman, and although you're sure that you must be using too many fingers and teeth you resign yourself to fucking the murderess who made you come so hard.

The way she shudders and wets your mouth and gasps softly above you _should_ be erotic, but you're so miserable that she might as well be cursing you. Boba's boot never relinquishes its pressure, and although he's likely too tired from all the fucking he's done over the past few days to take use of you it's obvious that he's gaining as much pleasure from the scene as Fennec.

"There," breathes Shand, and you feel the clench and release of her orgasm against your tongue, the salt taste of her juices drenching your hair.

"With a tongue like that you might redeem the Tantu name," says Fennec, and cups your face for a moment, the touch more condescending than tender. "You should have grown up amongst whores, not gangsters."

You crawl away across the floor, feeling winded by the experience. But again Boba accosts you, his ungloved hand clicking your jaw in a terse slap.

"Don't put anything up your nose without running it by me first, whore. Don't think I didn't notice the state of you in that cantina."

"Yes, Daddy," you mutter.

At last the pair allow you retreat into a bedroom, curling up in an enormous bed that should be the pinnacle of comfort, but only makes you feel cold, and small, and alone. You'd feel worse if _they_ were with you, you suspect, penned in where your adversaries would be at liberty to fuck you whenever they liked. But as the booze wears off and you think about Yen Diarr again you want _badly_ to be held, not by _them_ , but _someone_ , anyone who cares.

In the morning you wake with a sore head, but otherwise in far better shape than you thought you'd be. You hear Boba and Fennec talking quietly in another room, and after dressing quickly your fearful curiousity spurrs you to eavesdrop.

Through a crack in the door you see Shand reclining on a sofa, knocking back a drink as if she hadn't spent the whole night at the bottle. Then you spot a figure standing by the window, helmetless, human.

_Boba._

His face is tanned and of a rugged handsomeness, his features broad, scarred, his head completely bald. His eyes are brown, fierce under arched black brows. _These_ are the eyes you've felt rake your body over and over, that have locked in silent threat upon yours.

The head turns, and Boba sights you through the door.

"You little _shit_ ," he says.

He starts towards you, but as he does so there is an almighty crash of glass and he flattens himself against a wall, his expression suddenly grim. Fennec is on her feet, a gun on her shoulder, ducking as another window blows out, spraying glass across the room.

"Another _kriffing_ hit?" snaps Fennec. "The Family are really willing to risk-"

"Wasn't _them_ ," Boba says. "I'd bet my armour on it."

His dark eyes lock on yours, and you take your cue. Pelting back towards the bedroom you scramble to lock the door- _anything_ to slow them down, if only for a few seconds -before running to the window and throwing it open. It's lucky for you that the apartment is only on the second floor; you wriggle out of the small space and lower yourself down a series of sills and drainpipes without too much fear of breaking your neck were you to fall.

You drop to the ground, your ankles shaking under the impact, and stand for a moment, listening to the blaster rounds ringing out from within the building. Then when then the shots fall suspiciously silent you run, knowing that whatever the outcome is you need to put as much distance between you and this place as you possibly can.

For the next few days you're almost constantly on your feet, bartering for food, travel and a change of clothes whenever you can. Taking Fennec's advice on board you've decided to abandon the moral highground for the time being and flex a little of your influence to get by; there are plenty of seedy people willing to waive the price of a meal or a pair of shoes for the right intel or underworld gossip.

It's a dangerous game, for not only does the Tantu Family have countless enemies but if Boba survived then his underlings will be keeping an eye out for you all over the galaxy. The wrong word could easily give your identity away, even the wrong _look_. Using a false name and relying on years of carefully cultivated intuition you skate along by the skin of your teeth, although you know that you're living on borrowed time.

On one planet you finagle a blaster from an arms dealer, which never leaves your side. You shuttle between cities and planets so often that your boots blister your feet from the constant motion, and your back hurts from sleeping rough in alleyways. One night a man tries to mug you, but he backs off the minute you raise your blaster, his eyes wide and afraid. Still, you have as many nightmares about that incident as you do about Boba Fett and Fennec Shand, the closeness of death breathing on the back of your neck like a dog.

You're not sure how long you plan to run like this, never settling, too tired to enjoy your life or make any human connections. It's too risky to put feelers out as to Boba's fate, and you're saving the last credits in your boot for a moment your precious memory chip and its intel can't buy your way any further. You resolve merely to keep your ears open, to decide your future _only_ when you know you're safe.

The tracking collar is your biggest obstacle. You know that it needs removing, but you don't trust anyone you meet enough to reveal it, the collar being the strongest identifier of your true self. _This_ is what keeps you moving so frequently, trying to confuse or disrupt the signal any way you can.

It's on a train to another anonymous little town that you meet the man who changes your fortune.

You're slouched with your head against a window, drowsing, your hood slipping little by little from your face. Only when it's down and your bare temple bumps against the glass do you jerk fully awake and find yourself staring at an elderly man in a blue robe seated opposite you, his rheumy eyes clever, curious.

Instictively your fist snaps shut around the handle of the blaster.

"Excuse me for being forward," the man says. "But what's that on your neck?"

"Skin," you say, shortly, yanking your hood back up again.

"And _on_ the skin?"

"It's none of your business."

"Maybe not," says the man, shrugging. "But as someone who was a slave once I'd say that looks like a tracking collar. And an active one, at that."

Goosebumps rise on your arms, and you glance surreptitiously around the otherwise empty carriage.

"What do you mean it's _active_?" you ask. "And how do you know?"

"Elle told me," says the old man, nodding at the seat beside him.

For the first time you notice a squat droid, so small that its head doesn't even come up to the old man's armpit. The droid beeps quietly and blinks a light at you.

"She's an L7-L4," the man explains. "We go way back. Got a lot in common. I call her Elle, she calls me an asshole, most of the time. But to you I'm the Mechanic. Only name I've used in years, and seems as good as any."

"Radan," you say, the most recent false alias you've made up on your journey. "Or Danny. I don't care. So your droid- she can tell the tracker is being _used_?"

The Mechanic nods.

"She says you've done well to lose whoever's following that thing, but they're still looking for you. Signal might be patchy now, but if they get any closer, well-"

With a trembling hand you grip the collar, feeling terror crawl down your back like a many-legged insect. Boba _knew_ you made the hit; you saw the black certainty in his eyes. If he catches you your days will be numbered, or darkened, at the very least.

"You really _are_ a mechanic, right?" you ask, leaning forwards in your seat.

"Sure am. Learned the trade from my father, then when my old Master bought me it became my life. Still is."

"Can you remove the tracker for me? Please, I don't have any money, but-"

"Danny."

The Mechanic smiles, and you see a sadness in the lines around his eyes.

"You don't even have to ask. I don't want anything in return. Come over to my place and I'll get rid of it. Couldn't leave a kid like you stranded in that position."

You nod, and press your lips together to stifle a sob of gratitude. There is no time for emotion now, only survival.


	6. I Am Revenged

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for a gory medical type scene!
> 
> This chapter has the most plot, for what is a fairly simple story, but weirdly it's been one of my favourites to write! 💖
> 
> As ever I urge people seeking fluffy/romance people away from this story as you won't find it here! This is very much a kind of revenge/road narrative type story (think Wolf Creek, True Grit etc)
> 
> BuT I might write a fluffy Boba fic for you kids at some point (anon so keep an eye out for the initials R.M. in the authors note). Can't say when as it is a pandemic and I do have a job haha but if you want it so much I'll rustle something up 😇

The Mechanic and his droid _cannot_ be trusted, you think, no matter how kind they seem. There's no way of knowing their true intentions, nor whether they'd be willing to sell you out to those who hunt you; you'll accept their charity, get the hateful collar off your neck, then return to the road without any distractions. That's the plan, and you're sticking to it, no matter what.

The two mismatched companions take you to a lone, squat house in a desert, most of it converted into a garage of sorts, tools and scrap metal scattered in all directions. You sit gingerly on a rickety stool while the Mechanic bustles about the room, unsure what to do with yourself. Kindness is _not_ something you're used to, and with an absence of something or some _one_ to lash out at you feel yourself slipping back into nervous quiet.

Your gaze slides around the room, making uncomfortable eye contact with Elle's enigmatic sensors. It's hard to tell what she's thinking, there being no real face to read, nor is her language of beeps and whistles comprehensible to you. Your father kept very few droids in the palace, at least in the rooms you had access to; you resolve to learn binary dialect somewhere down the line, adding another string to your bow.

"So," says the Mechanic, handing you a tin mug of coffee. "Can I get a look at that tracking collar, Danny?"

The new name makes you start a little. _Radan_ is already beginning to feel like someone very different from the brat-princess of the Tantu: you're going to have to commit to the role, supress your immediate instincts. Nodding, you remove your hooded cloak, feeling exposed in your dirty shirt and trousers.

The Mechanic moves around you, muttering under his breath.

"I see somebody else has already tried cracking this thing," he comments. " _Badly_ , I might add. Biggest mistake is trying to break the collar itself; they're designed against any kind of brute force. You want to focus on releasing the lock."

Gently the man's fingers brush your neck, and you jolt as images of Boba's choking hands rise unbidden, unwanted, to the front of your mind. At once the Mechanic withdraws, his eyes clouded with dismay.

"It's okay," you say. "I- it's just that I'm not used to letting people get so close to me. But it's alright. You can carry on."

"As long as you're sure," says the Mechanic. "It should only take around ten minutes, anyway."

It feels like the longest ten minutes of your life. The man remains at a respectable distance, keeping his hands and tools as much on the tracking collar rather than your skin as possible. But occasionally a thoughtful huff of breath gusts your face and you have to suppress a whimper, more memories of Boba's modulated growls rising to the surface.

To distract yourself you try to strike up conversation, but it's a habit you've never properly learned. _Negotiation_ comes easily in that it roots directly to the point, but _talk_ , ordinary chatter reserved for the friends you never truly had- you flounder in it, hearing yourself sound either too formal or too aggressive in turn.

"So, uh, you and Elle," you fumble, haltingly. "You're runaways too?"

The Mechanic nods.

"Sure are. See, my father was a poor man. Sold me off to a rich fella whose line was rigged podraces when I was about fourteen or so. I patched up mangled vehicles, sabotaged the competition by fucking with the engines. Ended up killing a few folks in wrecks, and I'm not proud of it, but what could I do? People like us are just trying to get by. Started wearing on me after a few years, though."

Elle releases a series of beeps, and the Mechanic grins, his worn face creasing.

"Yeah, yeah, so you always remind me."

"What did she say?" you ask.

"That I would have been up shit creek without a paddle if she hadn't helped me out," the old man says, chuckling. "And she ain't wrong. Elle was at that dump long before I turned up; she was biding her time for the right moment to dip since day one. Mr Rich wasn't even her first owner. Old models like her just get passed around and used up til they wind down, and when I started getting on in years I knew I was going the same way."

Something on your tracking collar clicks, the sound making you jump.

"So how did you get away?" you ask.

"Now _that's_ a story," says the Mechanic. "One day we souped up one of the repulsorcrafts we'd been working on and hightailed it out of there. Got chased hard, but I knew my way around a ship at that point and was about as good as any racer. Dumped the junker in a ravine and spent the next couple of years bouncing between safehouses to throw off the scent. Lucky for us old-timers we weren't exactly _desirable_ , so Mr Rich stopped looking for us eventually. But we live out here off the grid just in case anybody _else_ decides to try something. Worked for us so far, right Elle?"

A few high pitched beeps pipe up from the droid, and you notice the welded lines of repaired damage on her that had slipped your attention before. _Scars_ , for want of a better term; someone in her past has clearly beaten her with a blunt instrument. You stomach sours, and you realise that whatever unknown motives these two might have their story, at least, is true.

"So," says the Mechanic. "What kind of trouble are _you_ in?"

"A lot," you mutter.

You rub your hands nervously over each other, afraid that even the smallest slip of a word will betray your true self. If these people knew exactly who was after you or _why_ you doubt that they'd risk their lives for yours.

"I- I was born in a slaver's house," you begin, cautiously. "I wasn't treated badly, but I was a prisoner there, and seeing evil things day after day- I had to get away."

"Were you a dancer?"

 _Dancer_. The delicate way the man sounds out the word clearly means 'whore'.

"No," you say. "Not then, anyway. Kind of just a pet. But when I escaped my owner sent a bounty hunter after me. He was even worse. I- well, I agreed to do certain things for him if didn't send me back to the other place. If he'd free me. But he didn't want to let me go."

Feeling tears gathering in your eyes you squeeze them shut for a moment, pushing them back.

"I managed to get away again, but I don't know how long I'll last. I can't even go to a safehouse- it's too risky."

You choose not to mention that Boba's hunting style is known for its brutal efficiency, rarely taking out civilians. The _true_ reason safehouses are off-limits is how easily a resident might recognise you as the remote, icy daughter of Raxis Tantu; there are plenty of people who'd have no qualms reporting you, even putting a vibroknife in your back on some dark night.

"I don't blame you for playing it safe," says the Mechanic, pushing a tool against your collar. "But once we get _this_ off you maybe you'll be less conspicuous. And I'd say I just about- _aha_!"

The metal vice around your neck un-snaps, and the Mechanic holds it aloft, grinning with a mouthful of silver teeth.

"Got the little bastard. Elle here will scramble its signal, make it look like you've moved on someplace else."

"Thank you," you say, your hands flying up to the bare skin of your throat. "Oh, Maker. I thought it might _never_ come off."

Abruptly you remember the intense stare of Boba's visor as he put the device on your neck, the warmth of his gloved hands, and feel a twitch of guilty arousal within you, a cruel betrayer of a thing.

Seeing the ripple of discomfort in your expression the Mechanic says, "I'm thinking of making us some dinner. But before I do- you got any injectable implants? Might be worth making _them_ untraceable, too."

Although you know it's something that needed to be asked the personal nature of the question makes you wince.

"I have a memory enhancer. And- and birth control. I can't have either of them removed. I _need_ them."

Elle whistles from her corner, and the Mechanic nods, smiling reassuringly.

"She doesn't need to take them out," he says. "We spent years tinkering on her, figuring out a scanning system to read and disrupt any signal traces. We thought, _shit_ , best to prepare ourselves in case we ever get caught again. You just never know. It's a harsh old world out there."

You get up from your chair and kneel down in front of the droid. Her eyes, as enigmatic as Boba's helmet, flash and blink.

"Do it," you say. "Anything to give me more time."

 _Not much_ , you think, considering how quickly Boba is known to finish a hunt with only the wisp of a trail to follow. But as the droid goes through the motions of scanning your chips through the skin you feel a surge of gratitude, an emotion that is almost foreign to you.

The feeling only deepens as you share a meal with the Mechanic, enjoying the banter between your two unlikely hosts. Gradually you feel yourself letting your guard down enough to join in the conversation again.

"Have either of you ever thought of revenge?" you ask, after a drink or three warms your belly. "On your old owners, I mean?"

Without pause Elle lets out what is unmistakably an expletive.

" _She_ has," says the Mechanic, raising his eyes skywards. "First hint of an organised droid rebellion and she'll be right out there on the front line. But _me_? Shit. I'm coming up to seventy-five; what can I do? Hit 'em with a wrench? My intrepid days are over, kid. I might not have family to worry about, except _Madame_ over here, but I'm comfortable. I don't have the fire for all that anymore."

"But if you'd been younger?"

The Mechanic gives you a long look and leans across the table to pat the back of your arm.

"I see where you're going with this. Trust me, Danny, if these folks after you are even _half_ so bad as I'm thinking you oughta leave well alone. Let it go. Not worth your time."

His words strike true, but you can't take back that call to Yen Diarr, the hit you placed in your hot-headed rage. _Still_ you hope that she's taken a sizeable chunk out of Fett, made him feel even an iota of your suffering. The need for it makes your pulse throb in your eardrums like violent music, and you can't help enjoying the shot of adrenaline that accompanies it.

Shifting in your seat you say, "But why should they get away with it? The things they've _done_?"

"They _shouldn't_ ," cries the Mechanic, placatingly. "They _shouldn't_ , and I wish every one of them would fall out of some airlock and freeze to death tomorrow, I swear I do. But that's not how the world works, Danny. Behind every bad bantha-fucker in the galaxy is someone ten times worse. _Maker_ , even if you whacked one of these guys who's to say ten more like them won't come after you?"

 _A little late to worry about that_ , you think, picking agitatedly at a loose hangnail.

"What _you_ wanna do is keep your head down and your nose clean," the Mechanic tells you. "Keep moving until they forget you ever existed. _Vanish_. Find your people, wherever they are. Make a new life and live well just to spite the bastards. That's how me and Elle have lasted so damn long."

"And what if they _find_ me?" you ask, fear sneaking into your voice. "What if I end up back at square one all over again?"

"Then you play nice. Make them _think_ you learned your lesson. Then you wait. Always another opportunity, if you deal your cards right."

"I don't know," you say, moodily. "Maybe I'll end up tossed in some holding cell to rot. Not many opportunities _there_."

The old man downs whiskey and squints at you through misty eyes.

"You know what, kid, you've got spunk for someone who's had kind of a tough run. I respect that. You've got more fire than you give yourself credit for. Just know when to use it, is all I'm saying."

Uncanny to think that both Boba and Fennec have already told you more or less the same thing.

"I hear you," you say, smiling thinly, and get to your feet.

"You turning in already?" asks the Mechanic. "Well, this place is all one floor; there's a bathroom and a spare bedroom to your left. Don't get visitors much, so it'll be free as long as you want it. You _could_ stick around for a week or so."

The offer makes you ache with yearning, but you know that you don't dare. Still, you take immense pleasure in the cramped refresher, rough towels and the utilitarian single bed, exalting in the fact that you are, for the briefest moment, _safe_.

But you sleep with your blaster under your pillow, as is your habit now, the hard ridges of the metal etching grooves into your face.

In the morning you wake to blissful near-silence, the sand winds soothing in their lack of urgency. You're tempted to lie in for an hour or so longer, catching up on much needed sleep, but the fearful instinct to return to the road emerges again.

To think that the only reason you're stranded in this desert is through the possessive egos of two men, one intercepting the other's assault with the ease of an adult parrying an infant. Boba is _far_ from the first kingpin Raxis Tantu has tried to topple- he dissolved the White Gnash Syndicate in the space of a week, and ninety percent of the Dead Sun Rising gang offered the Tantus their services after their queen vanished. But _they_ were nothing, all _nothing_ compared to Boba Fett, and the Family should have known that they could not take him.

Maker, why _hadn't_ they? It was your Grandfather, Raxul Tantu, who had first taken Boba into the fold, doing so based on the esteem of Jango Fett, Boba's late father, himself an infamous mercenary. You've heard a few of the stories, tales of cool and brutal, unmatched cunning; it's said that Jango fell only when outnumbered on a difficult hunt, leaving Boba orphaned.

 _Orphaned_.

A dread coldness runs through you. It was all _there_ back then in that grieving child, the latent Mandalorian thirst for conquest and vengeance. Had your Grandfather sensed the embers of it and _still_ beckoned Boba in, foisting the risk of his turning onto his own son? Or had the Family merely underestimated Boba, pinning him as no more than a tradesman with death in his pocket, a carbon copy of Jango Fett?

Shaking your head in disgust it strikes to you that you've come upon the likeliest answer.

You see it all _so_ clearly, this war of men, each stepping out of the shade of some patriarch to make their own mark in the galaxy. But there's a theatre to it, to Boba's cruelty and desire, and yet a kind of truth; Fett's domination of you is Mandalorian to the very bones of him.

What reason, then, do _you_ have for folding so easily to his subjugation? _Boba_ , at least, you can hide from, but _yourself_ , that inexplicable need-

Alarmed by the runaway train of your own thoughts you emerge from your room, hoping a mug of coffee will shake them out of you. Something about your expression must look sheepish, for the Mechanic winks when he sees you, gesturing to the table.

"You missed breakfast! I left you something; it's cold by now, but I couldn't starve a guest."

"You didn't have to _do_ that," you say, touched. "Thank you, though. I mean that."

As you're eating the Mechanic dumps a worn-looking bag onto the tabletop and talks you through the contents.

"Since you're eager to be out of my hair so damned fast I thought I'd put something together to take with you on the road. It's not _much_ , but it's something."

He's downplaying the gesture. Through the open mouth of the bag your eye falls on money, a flask of water, protein bars, a medkit: the basics any traveller needs to survive.

A piece of bread clogs your mouth, and you push your plate away, overcome with emotion.

"I don't know what to say," you mumble.

The Mechanic's thick hand rustles the bag.

"I put a list of safehouses and trustable names on an old datapad- well, _Elle_ helped, she's better with all of that techie stuff. Oh yeah, and _this_. Vibroblade. Handy _and_ dandy. Hope you know your way around one of these. Be careful with it, alright?"

He waves it between two fingers before hiding it in the bag again.

"But why are you _doing_ all this?" you ask, your lip trembling. "You don't even _know_ me, not even the first _kriffing_ thing-"

"Doesn't matter," says the Mechanic, shrugging his shoulders. "All I needed to see was a youngster sat alone on some run-down train, collared like an animal. _Had_ to help. Wouldn't have been much of a man if I hadn't."

Elle, who has been observing the conversation quietly, says something that makes the Mechanic guffaw.

"Oh yeah- and I liked that when I asked about that damned tracker you gave me shit back. Kinda reminded me of a certain somebody."

* * *

Reuctant to part ways with the odd pair you agree to stay at the house until nightfall, floored that your new allies have gone so far out of their way to assist you. Scrolling through the addresses on the datapad you commit as many to memory as possible in case the device is ever lost, paying particular note to those on the most distant planets. Anywhere with difficult terrain, anywhere that will put vast distances between yourself and Boba Fett; those are the places you'll cleave to when you're back on the run.

You end up chasing a few more precious hours of sleep after all, not knowing when exactly you'll get to lie on a proper bed again. What _was_ intended to be a brief nap swallows so many hours that when you wake you _feel_ rather than _see_ the darkness beyond the house, and something about that sensation makes the tiny hairs on your arms stand upright with disquiet.

Shouldering the Mechanic's bag you holster the vibroblade on your right thigh and seize your blaster. You have no reason to be on high alert, but you're jittering with tension and you know with an unyielding certainty that something is _wrong_.

Quietly you edge down the corridor, your ears finally picking up voices.

"I'm telling you, there's no woman here," the Mechanic is protesting. " _Stars_ , what would a girl be doing out here in this wasteland? Nothing but desert for miles around."

"We received a message informing us that she was at this location," a woman's voice- _Fennec's_ -says, coolly. "I commend your loyalty, but she's not worth it. Didn't you question _why_ she was on the run?"

"Didn't question a _thing_ , since I haven't seen any girl to begin with. Not to be rude, but who _are_ you people?"

"Bounty hunters," a rough voice replies, and a cold sweat breaks out over your body at the mere sound of it. "Simple people trying to make a living, and your little house guest is a high-value target."

"She's no helpless youngling, either," adds Fennec. "This girl is no stranger to killing. She placed a hit on my associate worth three times her own value. Evidently, it failed, but not without consequence."

You wonder _what_ exactly said consequence was, feeling a small, grim sense of satisfaction that you at least gave these vultures hell.

"I'm sorry," says the Mechanic, firmly. "But you've got the wrong house. There's nobody here but me and Elle, my droid."

"Interesting," says Boba. "It was an L7-L4 droid that sent the co-ordinates to us."

In the silence you feel your heart break, a soft, twinging sensation that you're certain you'll never forget.

" _Elle_ ," says the Mechanic, hoarsely. "What the _fuck_ were you thinking?"

The droid beeps shrilly, and the panic in that sound is somehow rather sad.

"What do you _mean_ , you read her memory enhancer? 'She's one of the bad people'- no, _no_ , Elle, you weren't protecting anyone, she's just a kid-"

Hearing their conflict helps you decide your next move. Holding the blaster aloft you nudge open the door to the main room and step inside, your shaking grip jerking the firearm from Fennec to Boba. Both mercenaries look worse for wear, Fennec's hairline singed, Boba's armour dented and scoured of paint on the upper shoulder from a blaster round.

"Leave this place," you say, your voice the high-pitched bluster of a child.

"Found your pluck at last, _mesh'la_?" mocks Boba. "Wondered when you'd decide to pick up a weapon instead of making Daddy's pet mercenaries do the work for you."

There's a dangerous undertone beneath his wit that betrays a tired anger; he might not have felt especially _threatened_ by the recent attack, but clearly it took him off-guard.

"Our _deal_ is off," you say. "I want out. _All_ the way out."

"I don't like people who break a bargain," says Boba. "Lacks honour. Integrity."

Cautiously you edge further into the room, eyeing the doorway. You’ll have to get between Boba and Fennec to make it, and neither of them are budging. Fennec's hand creeps towards her rifle and you train the blaster on her face, the thin, hateful smile. You despise how easily she made you come with that mouth, and the thought of it makes you even more angry and afraid.

"Out," you say, again. "And don't harm these two. They're nobody."

"I don't think you realise how good you've had it, little mouse," sneers Fennec, ignoring the order as if you hadn't spoken. "Any _other_ king would have left you bound to their dias for every lowlife in the galaxy to jerk their pleasure over. Would have sent quite the clear message. But Boba has a heart- and I can be quite the soft touch, too, if the mood is right."

You know exactly what she's getting at and feel heat rise in your face.

"Stop talking," you snap. "Stand back against the wall. You're going to let me walk out of here and- and then you're going to leave, alright? Without hurting anyone."

It's _madness_ , threatening these two people, but you have no choice. As far as you can tell there's no backdoor to bolt through, no other way but _forward_.

"Do you even know how to use a blaster, your Grace?" asks Shand.

You raise your gun to a point above Fennec's head and fire a bolt at the wall. The recoil tears at your shoulder, but as Shand steps, hard-faced, from beneath a shower of loose plaster you sense that the mood has changed.

"Playtime's over, girlie," says Boba. "You've had a good run. But you've slipped your leash for the last time."

He's moved towards you as your attention was on Fennec, his movements quick, lithe despite his size, swallowing distance as if it was nothing. You smell him- leather, gun-oil, engine grease, the slight tang of body odour -and supress a gasp.

"I'll have that blaster out of your dainty little hand before you even think to shoot me," he growls. "But you're welcome to try."

Your fingers clench over the trigger, and Boba takes another step closer.

"You have a world of punishment ahead of you, doll. Makes no difference to me whether we start now, or later."

" _No_."

Both you and Boba turn towards the Mechanic, who has been standing, silent, throughout the standoff. You're shocked to see his hands wrapped around a sawn-off shotgun, a hideous looking thing that's clearly been as modified and tinkered with as all the other brik-a-brak in the garage.

"Mechanic?" you say, shocked.

He nods at you, then to the door.

"Go. And then _you'll_ get out of here, you two devils, or I swear I'll blow at least one of you to Hell."

The tension in the air makes you feel faint with panic. There's a moment that you think Boba will loose his patience and kill the old man and the droid, but instead he glances at you and inclines his helmet ever so slightly.

_Go._

Looking the Mechanic in the eye you walk backwards towards the door.

"I'm sorry," you whisper. "I'm sorry."

"Good luck, Danny," he says.

Kicking the door open you turn and begin to run, your boots slipping and skidding in the soft desert sand.

By your estimation you're a good thirty feet from the house when you hear the door of the house opening again. You glance over your shoulder, gasping and wheezing for breath, to see Fennec raising her sniper rifle and taking aim, Boba observing like some dark sentinel.

You think that Shand has missed until you feel pain tear through the back of your left heel.

Clamping your teeth on a scream you stumble in the sand, your vision blurring as blood spouts from the back of your boot. You force yourself back upright and make yourself run again, a shambling, agonising pace, your injured leg trailing behind you in a stream of blood. When you hear another bullet sing past your shoulder you turn and raise the blaster, knowing that there's no way you'll make the shot at this distance, but firing anyway.

"Stop," you hear Boba say to Fennec. "Stay here. Watch the house. I'll bring her in alone."

Terror numbs you to your pain, and you run faster, your eyes trained on a rocky outcrop some way ahead in the dark. If you can duck behind it and get the bullet out of your foot you _might_ be able to run further, even push forwards towards the isolated train station-

But _then_ where would you go? Where would you _go_ that this vengeful machine of a man cannot find you?

You can't think like that. _Refuse_ to. Thoughts like that will condemn you.

You feel Boba following you at a leisurely walk, taking his time. He could use his jetpack and end this in minutes, but _this_ is all part of the punishment, the _game_ , whatever sick clinch you're in together. Part of you wants to stop, turn around and trot willingly to him to end this brutal, exhausting grind. Perhaps he won't be so hard on you then, his sorry little girl, if you kiss his helmet and suck his cock and promise to be an obedient pet from now on.

Some dream.

It's cold in the desert at night, so cold that even though you're sweating with exertion your teeth chatter and your fingers are numb around the blaster. Each step sends pain howling up from your shot foot, and although the high of your fear is staving off the majority of it tears of agony bolt down your cheeks like pellets of ice.

Behind you Boba still follows, patient, silent, grim. You hope he's as tired and as spent from this hunt as you are, but he doesn't show it; the damned green mask conceals all.

At long, blessed last you reach the outcrop and duck down behind it, sitting to tug off your ripped boot. Blood is still coursing from your wound, the salt-tang of it in the air making you ill. Clumsily you pull the datapad out of your bag, using it as a flashlight as you look at the wound in your heel. The bullet isn't too deep, having been vastly slowed by the boot, but as you dash water over the wound and unsheath the vibroblade you begin to heave.

You have no idea what you're doing, none at all. You've only read about such surgeries in novels, and you feel yourself growing dizzy as the blade touches the rim of the wound. Stuffing the fabric of your cloak into your mouth you scream as the knife works around the bullet, pushing it out of the wound with a grisly wet _pock_. 

For a moment you sit, trying to gage whether or not you're actually going to pass out. Then with juddering hands you unscrew a small plate of bacta from the bag and apply it to the wound, watching as it seals the skin.

Time is passing too quickly. If you don't move in a minute or so Boba is going to find you, and all your efforts will have been for nothing. All the _Mechanic's_ efforts, too.

You shove your boot back on, re-pack the bag and drag yourself upright along the great rock, testing your weight on your left foot. It hurts more than any pain you've ever known, but you can stand and, thus, you can _walk_.

A few steps around the outcrop and you're doubled over, retching against coarse stone. It's the shock, you realise; your foot might be mostly healed, but your _mind_ is not. With sweating hands you drag yourself further and further along the rock, cold sweat sticking your cloak to your body.

"All done with your little _fit_ , girl?"

You scream with despair. Boba has caught up at last, and is striding towards you even as you fumble the blaster towards him.

"Back off," you say, weakly. "Or I'll shoot that bucket off your head."

Boba chuckles.

"This _bucket_ is made of beskar. Your bolts'll make about as much impact as your hired shooter did. You owe me a ship, by the way."

Boba approaches you, his gait a confident, slow prowl.

"After shooting her I discovered a black hole in the dirt where the _Marsh Fire_ used to be. That's _one_ thing your merc got over me. Now had that been the _Slave I_ I might not be in such an agreeable mood-"

Aiming the gun at Boba's t-visor you fire, but he jerks aside with speed that seems unlikely for such a large man. His fist is around your forearm before you can stop him, smashing your hand backwards against the wall until you release the weapon. You're not ready to give in; snatching the bloodied vibroblade from your thigh you jab at the expanse of unprotected flesh around Boba's armpit, ripping at the black fabric of his robes to the flesh beneath.

Blood douses your upturned face before Boba twists around, his elbow crashing into your chin, ramming your skull into the coarse rock behind you. You're struggling harder than ever, thrashing against him, spitting blood as you try to raise the knife again. Boba glares down at you, his anger seething like a black mist. Suddenly he balls a fist and punches you- not slaps, _punches,_ full-force, his knuckles colliding with your cheekbone so hard that you're shocked it doesn't crack.

You crumple into the sand, the vibroblade dropping from your fingers.

"You're too fucking cocky," snarls Boba. "I might want you alive, but that doesn't mean I'll treat you like a royal. You're going to have quite the pretty bruise on that face of yours in the morning."

"Why don't you kill me?" you say, your voice fraught with misery. "You said you'd break my neck if I tried anything like that again."

"Took that to heart, eh?"

Boba looms over you, his gloved right hand smearing blood across your face.

"I need you alive and kicking. Told you that. And I like pets that bite. Comes with the territory. You're better to look at than a Sarlacc; about as much of a cunt, though."

"I thought that you were supposed to be a man of _honour_ ," you say, petulantly. "Tell me how _this_ is honourable."

The bounty hunter shrugs.

"All a matter of perspective."

You stiffen as Boba reaches up to remove his helmet. Although you've already seen what lies beneath without his consent you know enough about both Mandalorian and bounty hunter culture to be aware that revealing one's face _willingly_ holds weight.

Boba crouches down to your level, placing the helmet in the sand. You look everywhere but his face, certain that this must be some trick, that he'll hit you again merely for looking him in the eye.

"I give respect where it's due," says Fett. "You protected the old man and his droid even after she betrayed you. That's admirable. It's not the way of the Family."

 _Praise_. Real praise, not the condescending 'good girl' dreck of before. You begin to shake uncontrollably, afraid of what it means, and at the same time hopeful; it's a sign of that humanity you know must be there, the remains of the little boy who lost his father so long ago.

"She was just scared," you say, at last. "It's not her fault. Both of them were slaves, once. The droid was trying to keep them safe. How was _she_ supposed to know I wasn't going to hurt them? Anyway, they helped me. I owed them a lot."

Again you try to creep along the rock, but Boba puts a hand on your left knee and a bolt of pain shoots up from your foot again. Paling, you grow still.

"Your loyalty has my interest," says Boba. "Wasn't something I thought you were capable of."

You don't answer, _can't_ ; a wave of faintness and nausea sweeps over you.

"Look at me, princess," demands the bounty hunter.

Reluctantly you raise your eyes to the scarred face, the dark eyes as much a mystery as the visor. You find yourself tranfixed, seeing your own wrought face in the black pupils.

"You offered your services to me," says Boba. "Only you had no intention of giving them, and I had no use for you except for that chip in your head and what you've got between your legs. Now it turns out you've got grit."

"You want to hire me," you say, in surprise and disgust. "What for?"

Boba ignores the question, instead saying, "Agree and I'll waive some of the debt you owe me and my business. My mercy is rare, little girl. I don't offer it lightly."

Gazing helplessly into Boba's dangerous black eyes you consider the alternatives. All of them are equally bleak, ending in slavery, destitution, death; pride makes you want to refuse his offer, but you're in pain, and you're tired, and curious.

Besides, you know exactly _why_ Boba left Fennec to watch the house, her rifle full of bullets.

"Kill at your command, die at your command, right?" you say, softly.

"There's that flawless memory of yours," says Boba. "But death isn't in the stars just yet."

He leans so close to you that you feel the heat of his breath on your face. Suddenly he kisses you, roughly, harshly, knocking your head back against the rock, and it's as if all the breath has been punched from your lungs in one wrenching moment. You flounder beneath him, this fresh assault stunning you into stillness.

At last Boba pulls away, dropping you with an expression as blank as the desert around you.

"Get up, your Highness," he says, picking his helmet up out of the sand. "About time I showed you around your new palace."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh and a second AN now I don't have to worry about spoilers. Excited about where the fic is going from here. Might seem like the story is headed on a one note track to some but hmm not necessarily 😘


	7. Divided from Herself

You follow the Mandalorian reluctantly across the desert, still limping from the impact of Fennec's bullet. Fett has taken your weapons from you along with the Mechanic's bag, leaving you as defenceless as a child. Only the bounty hunter's sudden respect for you works in your favour, and even that, you sense, is a tenous, unstable thing, a mere symptom of Fett's questionable conscience.

What line does Boba draw in the sand to differentiate him from other criminals in the galaxy, elevating him above his own scorn? Maybe there _is_ no line; your father used to say that even the best man loses his scruples in sight of the object of his desire. Or perhaps it's only that Boba is like so many bad men in this world, a hypocrite unable to see the traits he loathes within himself.

Whatever the truth may be, Boba Fett is a complex man, more than you'd ever believed in the days of watching his mysterious figure approach the Tantu palace across plains of smoulder and ash.

"How's the injury?" asks the bounty hunter, suddenly.

The question is flat, neutral; you cannot determine its cause.

"Alright," you answer. "I got the bullet out. Put on some bacta."

"Quite the medic. Don't imagine you've patched many wounds before."

You shake your head.

"I've seen a lot of bloodshed- executions, mostly. But I've never been involved."

"So you improvised. Impressive. Still, I'll have you looked over on Tatooine."

He's still cold, businesslike, but you realise that the statement is a truce of sorts, one you feel intense pressure to accept. You'll lose nothing by trying so why do you roil violently in the other direction, bringing hurt and cruelty upon yourself when you might otherwise stand unscathed?

 _Pride_. You've got your father's arrogant streak in you, the same thing that's given you the reputation as the Tantu's frozen doll: remote, unreachable, an ornament. You recall a hunger strike when you were twelve, objecting to your favourite servant being sold on to another family, the day you'd tried to dig your memory enhancer out with a hairpin, the only sharp thing you were ever allowed without supervision.

"You'll make a good queen, one day, baby doll," your father said each time, laughing at your displeasure. "You're no weakling, I'll give you that."

It has never been in your nature to acquiesce; if anything it's the opposite, an outrage you cannot _help_ but rise to. As you trudge towards the infamous _Slave I_ you push such emotions beneath the surface, although you still _feel_ them there, like a splinter in the nail bed.

Fennec loiters nearby, her lean arms folded. She appears haggard and worn by the hunt, but she smirks slightly, eyes flying to your swollen face, your uncuffed wrists. Her head tilts a question.

"Meet your new colleague," says Boba, dryly. "Lucky that the pair of you get on."

" _Well_ ," Shand replies, her lips quirking at the corners. "Someone's developing quite the habit of taking in strays."

"What can I say? If a curr wags its tail I can't refuse it."

" _This_ one has a lot of teeth," says Fennec, nodding at the blood on Fett's arm from the vibroblade. "And it's far from the first time she's shown them. How many chances will you give her before you decide her life bleeds more credits than it earns?"

"One," said Boba. "But she won't be running off again. Wll you, your Grace?"

His eyes crawl over you from behind the onyx yawn of his visor.

"No," you mutter, honestly enough.

Fett nods gruffly and strides towards the entrance of the ship. Fennec lingers, and her smile takes on a hard look

"Good to hear you've had a change of heart now you've got your _occupation_ to think of," she says. "Perhaps you'll surprise me by keeping your word. Boba rewards loyalty, and there's more to be gained from working _with_ him than against him."

Long-tired of this rhetoric you say nothing, staring bleakly down at your boots.

"Sorry about the foot, by the way," says Shand. "Nothing personal. I have to commend you for winning Boba's favour after that little _escapade_. There I was, thinking you were nothing but a soft little upstart Boba just _had_ to claim as spoils of war. He _is_ a man, after all. Now it turns out he sees something in you worth salvaging."

"And _you_ don't?" you ask.

Fennec's lips curl.

"Living the life I do I can't claim to be the best judge of moral character. Even if I was I don’t get the impression that you appreciate my wisdom."

You cross your arms over your chest, feeling vulnerable under her condescension.

"I'll say _this_ much of you," Fennec continues. " _Clearly_ you see yourself as some kind of heroine, and you're not entirely incapable, I'll give you that. But you're gauche and inexperienced, and far too free with your emotions. I saw the way you were with the old man and the droid- _Boba_ clearly thinks it was cute, but I'd call it risky."

"But _you_ expect me to befriend a man who treats me like cargo."

" _Serve_ , yes, _befriend_ , no. Boba has many acquaintances he likes and trusts, but he's conscious that everyone in this business is willing to double-cross for the right price. But then again, there aren't many people who cross Boba and _survive_. You're either living on borrowed time or you have the luck of the Gods, little mouse. Think about that."

Fennec gestures for you to walk ahead of her, clearly not trusting you to fall behind even without your weaponry. The tip of her rifle slips from the back of your neck down to your tailbone, rippling a tight little a shudder down your spine.

" _Try_ not to aggravate him again," says Shand. "He's a better man than you give him credit for, and besides, it's me who'll have to bear the brunt of it. I work with him every day."

As you enter the _Slave I_ Fennec stops you, gesturing to a number of horizontal, coffin-like holding cells in one wall.

"Take your pick, your Highness."

"You can't be serious," you object, your chest squeezing with claustrophobia. "I'm not his _prisoner_ any more. I _work_ for him. I-".

"You're still quarry," says Fennec. "And you owe him _this_ much, don't you think?"

The trip to Tatooine is hellish to put it mildly; the small space cramps around around you like a poacher's trap, making you feel smothered. You shiver and sweat, convinced somehow that the air will be sucked out of the small space and leave you completely breathless.

Miserable, you agonise over what Boba is thinking, whether he takes pleasure in your current suffering or is entirely indifferent to it. He's not _above_ torture; you've heard tales of this or that crook pummeled for information or force into a familiar submission. But it's always been a means to an end, part and parcel of the job, not a _predilection_ , so far as you can tell.

Something in _you_ seems to incurr a taste for sadism in _him_ , and you resolve to find out why.

You try to maintain some semblance of dignity when you're finally released from the cell, although you're shaking so badly from the unpleasant journey that as you straighten up you find yourself stumbling. Boba seizes you by the elbow, preventing you from falling. His grip is rough, but not _entirely_ unkind; you stiffen, liking that small gesture even less than Fett's cruelty.

Boba grunts, the throaty sound prickling the hairs on the back of your neck like pineneedles.

" _Steady_ , your Highness."

"Do _do_ know that I don't use royal titles," you say, stiffly.

"You prefer the _others_ I've called you?"

Boba's voice is cool, unemotional, but his gloved palm on your arm squeezes _just_ lightly enough that you know he's thinking of the same crude humiliation you are.

_Worthless. Stupid. Slut. Whore._

"No," you mumble. "I'm _none_ of those things."

"Hmm. Maybe I'll have to give you a new name."

You _think_ he's joking, but the idea of him re-dubbing you like an adopted pet- outrageous as it is -flutters your traitorous heart. It must be some illness that makes you so weak to his degradation, yearning for it like a stunted rose for the sun.

You follow Fennec and Boba out of the ship like a stiff little droid, shivering as the stone dome of what was once Jabba the Hutt's palace looms ahead.

Even standing outside it you sense how much the place has changed under Fett's ownership. Muffled music and clinking glasses travels in the air, and as you crunch across the sand towards the main doors a pair of glamorous women leave the building, their faces obscured by diaphonous scarves.

They bob small bows to Boba and Fennec, their many eyes looking you up and down, and wander away, their giggles filling you with discomfort.

"Court awaits," says Boba, and there is a note of pride in his voice that is perhaps the first _real_ , human emotion you've seen beneath his stoic exterior. "The party should be in full swing by now."

" _What_ party?" you ask, with trepidation.

Fennec smirks, and pushes open the doors.

"A better question would be, 'when does it _end_?'"

Descending the steps into the palace you're struck by a babble of conversation, guffaws and the swooping vocals of a live band, even more raucous than it ever was under Jabba's rule. You smell alcohol and Spice, and when the throne room finally comes into view you're overwhelmed by how many people are mingling below. Every possible variant of species and gender share drinks, gamble, make trades, others merely conversing around some booze-sopped tabletop.

As numerous heads turn towards you your limbs lock into place; you can't move, panic wrapping around you like a animal's bite. This feels _worse_ than the cantina, for here everyone knows and is loyal to Boba, isolating you completely. There will be no sympathetic girl loitering in a bathroom to help you _here_ , nothing but enemies on all sides.

"Tantu."

Boba, who is already at the bottom of the steps and greeting his acolytes with the proud, quiet grace of a Lord returned from battle, has turned back to look at you. The slight down-angle of the green helmet exudes a soundless threat you don't dare challenge. Slowly you edge down to meet him, hoping that he hasn't noticed how out of your depth you feel, certain that he must already be aware of it.

"Keep my throne warm for me," Boba says to Fennec, who has already made a beeline for the nearest spotchka. "I'm gonna show our new recruit to her room. Don't think she's in the mood to socialise after our little _dance_ earlier."

"Shame," says Fennec, draping herself elegantly over the chair on its raised dias. "I was looking forward to some entertainment. Come and play in a few hours, huh, mouse?"

Biting back a retort you hold your silence; perhaps ignoring any attempts to goad you will earn you more respect, or at _least_ make the pair tire of their relentless bullying. But as you trot after Boba like a tame dog you are reminded that your entire presence in this palace is meant to _humiliate_ the Family, and you can't help but twitch at every whisper and giggle that reaches you as you walk by.

The bounty hunter takes his time leaving the room, greeting old friends, accepting payments from debtors, observing a group of hired dancers, one of whom plants a wet kiss on Boba's visor as he saunters by. He pauses, running a hand over the curve of her waist, and something about the ease with which he arrests attention from her- from the entire _room_ -with barely more than a handful of words both compells and quickens envy within you.

Never have you known what it is to be revered, not like _this_ ; until now you'd never even realised you'd wanted it.

You feel invisible in Boba's wake, in the wealth and luxury of the room; no, worse than that, seen and still disregarded. People like _you_ are as common as lice in places like this, but _kings_? Boba is a creature of heroism and charisma, a swaggering giant who holds every person in the room in his palm. With a look, a single word, a gesture of the hand, he extends an effortless grip, and with bitterness you realise that you have much to learn from him.

At last Boba finishes his circuit and gestures you to follow him down a small passage, his stance suddenly guarded, impatient. This shift in mood frightens you, because you're no longer sure that it's _dislike_ you're sensing in him or something more complicated, an intangible puzzle of a thing.

"These are old slave quarters," says Boba, quietly, gesturing around a vast, high-ceiling room. "Where Jabba kept his favourite concubines. And Bib Fortuna, after him."

"So of _course_ you had to bring me here," you say, bitterly. "I thought your opinion of me had changed."

"And what _is_ my opinion?"

You step behind a long, chiffonous bolt of canopy hanging from a bedpost and knot it tightly around one fist.

"I'm barely redeemable. You're _trying_ to rehabilitate me, but you're not even sure that's possible. _This_ -"

Seeing Boba edge around the bed towards you makes you feel cold with terror.

" _This_ is still all I'm good for."

"Say what you mean, your Highness."

You let go of the bed, your hands clammy with perspiration.

"You wouldn't like the word I'd use to describe it."

Boba edges ever closer, his bulk jutting you against one of the bedposts. His hand comes up to your face, cupping the swelling along your cheekbone.

"You think I'd deny it?"

The rasp of his voice flusters you.

"I- I don't _know_. I just didn't think you'd admit that you- _forced_ me. After I changed my mind."

"Yes. I admit it."

The gloved fingers trace the curve of your cheek down to your throat, the thumb doing no more than lightly grazing your throat. The leather is warm, and smells of gun oil and dried blood.

As you turn your head those fingers nudge it back again, still gentle, but not yielding their control.

"I used to think that your pure little _saint_ act was a sham. Drove me insane. Seemed impossible that someone so green could sprout from those bastards. I wanted to wipe that prim look off your face. See what was underneath."

Boba's hand closes over your chin, tilting his helmet so close to your face that your breath steams his visor.

"But I'm starting to think you're the real deal. A pearl amongst swine. Let's see if you prove me wrong."

Fet releases you and crosses the room, his back turned to you. He rolls his wounded arm, making the shoulder click.

" _Why_ is it so hard for you to believe that I'm not a monster?" you ask.

After a lengthy pause Boba replies.

"My father was enslaved for many years. It's why my ship bears that name. He killed his oppressors and became legend. I've taken payment from slavers without flinching, same as I'll take credits from anyone. But I will never see one as a friend."

"And that justifies hurting _me_?"

"No. My life is one long history of sins. I'm not always proud of the things I've done. But I'm not sorry for them, either."

His voice is neither smug nor vicious, only as soft and cool as ash. You tremble as you watch him pace the chamber, his cape whispering against his beskar.

Frustration threatens your self-control.

"So it's not about the Family," you say. "If it _ever_ was to start with. It's about you, and what _you_ want out of me. "

"Never denied that, either."

Boba turns, and you wince under his empty glass stare.

"And don't forget," he says. "You're in debt for sending a bounty hunter after me. Most who cross me die, or endure the beating of their lives."

His hand touches his belt, and you shake your head, retreating against a wall.

"We both know which of those options _you'd_ prefer."

The slight emphasis on 'you' does not pass you by.

"When will it end?" you whisper.

Boba turns his head, and there is something about that tiny motion that seems almost ashamed.

 _Almost_ , but not quite.

"When we're tired of each other," says Boba, at last.

You sink down on the bed, your head in your hands.

"Get up," says Boba. "Use the refresher. Put on something nice. You have work to do tonight."

Incredulous, you jerk back up to face him.

" _Work_? After I've been shot at, hauled across the galaxy-"

Boba's hand is on the front of robes before the sentence has even skidded past your teeth.

"See, now _this_ ," he growls. "Is why I think you protest too much, little girl."

The name brings a flush to your face, and you see Boba's stance relax, having triggered the reaction he was looking for.

"You going to do what I say?" he asks, brusquely. "Or am I going to have to hold you down under the water?"

Swallowing your revulsion you say, "No, Daddy. I'll go."

"Good."

Again Boba's had loosens on you, but he doesn't leave the room; you feel his eyes follow you as you limp to the bathroom.

It's only when you're standing naked under the refresher that you hear the clink of armour hitting the tiles and realise that he intends to join you.

"Don't turn around," snaps Boba. "You're only going to see my face when I permit it from now on."

You glance right and left, scoping the open, wet-room styled room for anywhere to escape his desire. A rotten hole in your heart is glad, _glad_ that you can't run, _glad_ that you are trapped by walls and water and _man_.

As you drop you head in submission Fett makes a small, arrogant sound of approval.

" _That's_ it."

You sense his vast figure engulf the distance between you, one great hand knotting a wet tangle of hair at the base of your scalp to pull your head back to his. Water beats down upon your face and into your eyes, preventing you from seeing his expression as he draws you into a violent kiss.

You taste sand and blood on his lips, feel his teeth on your tongue. If he was any _other_ man you might have melted into the snarling aggression of his touch. By now you're so exhausted and throbbing with pain that you almost _do_ , but your resentment jolts you from his caress, throwing you forward against the slick wall of the refresher.

"Don't make anything easy, do you, princess?" Boba mutters.

He sounds as drained and irritable as you are, but still he pulls your hips back against him, as if he _needs_ you more than he wants you. Hard muscle and thickly-ridged scars brush against your buttocks, sending a silvery quiver through your loins. Feeling it, he barks a laugh.

"Desperate for it, aren't you?"

"No," you whimper, but as Boba crushes your face against the rough tiles and works his thick cock inside your tightness you gnash your teeth as pain and pleasure wrap around each other like weeds competing for the light.

"The Family made a mistake naming you as its heir," says Boba, his voice a liquid growl against your scalp. "You were born to _serve_ , not rule."

He thrusts into you, crushing you against the wall. Yelping, you no longer dare to resist him, only wishing that you dared turn to scratch out his eyes. You score your nails down the tiles instead, feeling them chip and grate against the wall. This doesn't stop your inner walls clenching upon the intruding member, nor your warm juices slicking your thighs along with the shower water.

Fett reaches out to lift your leg for deeper access and curses, having forgotten his wounded underarm.

"You're _hurt_ ," you snap, feeling his taut form wince against your back.

"What do _you_ care?"

Fett spins you round, jutting the knobs of your spine against the wall. Water fills your mouth and nostrils, making you splutter as Boba kisses you again. It's a motion that _should_ feel intimate, special, but is instead as impersonal and as brutal as a shot to the temple, leaving you wheezing in the wake of it. You try to guess what he's thinking, if anything at all; perhaps a man like him is moved by physical need alone, seeing _you_ as mere flesh, a hollow to be filled.

But you know that's not true, for the humiliating terms of your other trysts have all but withered away. He's fucking you now because he _wants_ to, not because of the axe he has to grind with the Family.

It takes all your will not to fight back as he lifts you onto his cock and grinds you into saccharine oblivion. You must play passive and brow-beaten and resigned; one flare of aggression and he'll rescind the slight trust he has in you. Any hope of freedom, of revenge, will be lost- but fury beats like a second pulse as the bounty hunter ruts you under the pummelling water pressure, and although you know it's in your best interests not to open your eyes you find yourself _staring_ , taking in the scarred carapace, the chill depths of his pupils.

He doesn't even raise his fist, but you flinch, expecting a bloodied nose for your disobedience.

"If you _want_ something, ask for it," says Boba, through coarse gasps of breath.

Oh _stars_. Does he think you'll _beg_ to him to abuse you when you're already annointed in bruises and scars from his hands? You wrench away from him, but his hold is as immovable as a binder, opening your sore cunt to him as he bottoms out within you again and again.

"I don't _want_ you," you say through your clenched jaw. "I'll _never_ want you."

Boba rams you against the wall again, one hand rolling your breast to a sharp peak.

"Keep telling yourself that, your Grace," he says.

 _Ah_ , there returns the cruelty again. He can't help himself, it seems.

His cock is so far within you that each strike makes you hiss with suffering and need. Coughing on water you snarl, " _Ne'johaa_!"

" _What_ was that?"

Fett's fingers on your breast become talons, tearing at the muscle.

"You're not _worthy_ of speaking my language, _filth_."

Suddenly he's fucking you so hard that you feel like a sack of bones, jangled and snapped by the force of his attentions. With one hand Boba wrenches a leg painfully above the hip, blood trailing down his bicep from the vibroknife wound in his armpit, and with the other he smothers your screams as you protest his brutality.

You stare at him with hatred and wordless beseeching, and he gazes back, his thin mouth twisted in anger.

Anger, and something like _awe_ that you've dared breathe Mando'a in his presence.

He arcs his cock within you one last time, the painful stab of it loosening some hard knot in your abdomen, and you come as he does, forcing yourself into some sheltered cave in your mind so that you don't succumb to the madness of shame.

When you're both done Fett allows you to fall into a sodden heap at the bottom of the refresher, your body seizing with shock and the trembling ends of your release. You feel him looking at you, sense that he's on the verge of saying something unexpected- an _apology_? a _confession_? -but instead he snaps, "I'll send for a medic. I don't want you limping in front of my guests."

" _What_ guests?" you ask, dully.

"Your beloved father's sending some goons to plead for your return. It'll be your job to convince them to change their allegiances."

Again he's reducing you a tool, an object of revenge.

"And if I _don't_?"

Boba's rasping laugh brings tears of suffering to your eyes.

"Then you'll be shooting your own flesh and blood, sweetheart. This is a cutthroat business. Work for me and you'll learn to leave no loose ends."

The second Boba leaves you release a wordless yell of despair, slamming your fist into the floor until your knuckles split and you crouch, cradling your bloody hand, trying to glean some good from your situation.

There isn't _much_ , but there _might_ be, if you keep playing Fett's game.

You dry off and dress in a gown that is all wispy grey mesh and silvery chains, like a fault in ancient stone. A doctor comes to you just as you're putting makeup on your face from supplies you found in some cabinet, immediately applying bacta on just about every part of you save your mottled cheek bone.

"He asked me to leave it alone," the little man says, apologetically. "But it should go down on its own in a week or so."

How crude; you'll have to wear the ugly bruise like a jewel.

"That's alright," you say. "But before you go- do you have anything for anxiety? Doesn't have to be... strictly _medicinal_ , you know?"

The doctor looks at you with eyes that have likely seen more than your mind could ever conceive. Your hopes of floating on Spice or a Powder high for the rest of the night disappear.

"The boss told me he wants you stone-cold sober," the little man says. "And I'm not about to cross him any time soon."

He escorts you back to the throne room, no doubt under instructions to prevent you from fleeing. You smile inwardly, wishing you could express that running is now the _last_ thing you intend to do. Fennec's advice has begun to appeal to you; you're going to sink into the depths of Boba's universe and slowly poison the waters.

The room is much as you left it, choked with people revelling and jostling for their king's attention. His is seated on the throne, his armoured form filling it as confidently as if it had been _made_ for him. Fennec loiters beside her employer, head bowed to the ear of a pretty Togruta woman. They seem like such ordinary people here, jovial, pleasant; not the vicious brutes you've come to know behind closed doors.

 _This_ time when you pass through the crowd the reaction is more curious than pitying. Clean and coiffed you no longer have the look of a tattered bounty, nor an _assassin_ , either; you are the glamorous prisoner of gang war turned ally, someone worth noticing.

If only they knew you'd been ravaged about a bathroom by their boss only an hour before. Perhaps if they'd seen you hunched and naked with semen glazing your inner thighs they might not be so _admiring_.

You notice Fennec turning from the Togruta as you approach. Her expression shifts to a kind of amusement, and half-looking down at Fett she shakes her head.

 _'I can see why he's interested in you'_ ; you're _so_ certain that's what she's thinking that for a moment you're _certain_ that she said it aloud.

"Princess."

Boba barely moves in his throne, but you read something in his voice akin to surprised admiration. Evidently he was half-expecting you to be a tear-streaked mess, the way you'd been during those first unhappy days on the ship. His turns to watch as you come to him, the panels of your dress scything over your legs like long grass. Something about his gaze makes you white-hot, your skin blazing.

You doubt that any woman has _ever_ held this man's attention for as long as you have, and that feels like a powerful thing, something to hold onto.

" _That_ was a well-timed entrance," says Boba. "Look who's here."

You turn just in time to see two familiar figures descending the stairs, tall, sleek, dressed in red and black.

"I don't recognise them," Fennec comments, unimpressed. "The Tantu Family really sent _small-fry_ to negotiate the fate of their treasured daughter."

"They're cousins of mine," you say. "Brothers. Safta and Junn. They handle a lot of the business."

"Like I said," Fennec mutters, raising her jug to her lips. " _Small_ -fry."

Your palms are slick with perspiration as you watch the two men wade through the throng. Although you've been forced into closeness with the Family all your life there is no liking between you, and as for love- _Maker_ , you wish that you weren't human, so that you didn't have to care for any of them at all.

" _Nervous_ , little one?" asks Boba, softly.

"You could say that," you reply. "I _ran_ from these people, and now I'm right back where I started."

"Hardly. They won't touch a hair on your head."

There is a hint of threat in Boba's voice, a far cry from his cantankerous consideration of returning you for an easy buck- but then again, he never _was_ intending to follow through with it, even _then_. You've belonged to him since the day you left your palace.

Safta and Junn approach the dias with the slick, predatory motions of birds hunting a fish down a stream, their stares boring into you and your swollen cheekbone.

"Boba Fett," says Safta, his voice an unpleasant rasp. "The Tantu Family contracted you to find and return our heir. It seems that only half of that job has been completed. We've come to collect what belongs to us."

"She's more valuable in _my_ possession," says the Bounty Hunter. "This is a business; you can't blame me for taking the more profitable option."

A gloved hand rises, slipping one of the silvery chains hanging from your dress through its fingers. The motion is subtle, but you see the brothers' angular faces harden as they assess the situation.

"We were under the impression that _you_ don't break deals," says Junn. "Now we're starting to question your reputation."

Despite the music and laughter in the room it feels suddenly very quiet.

"I chose to stay," you say, abruptly. "Boba is not at fault. He's been a gracious host."

" _Gracious_ ," Safta repeats, his lip curling. "Our intel suggests otherwise. You know better than anyone how many eyes the Family has over the galaxy."

"As do I," growls Boba. "Seems some of your people have itchy trigger fingers. Might want to be careful where they aim their fire."

The mood is rapidly darkening, and as much as you loathe your cousins you're not sure that you want to see their guts strewn across the palace.

"The Family acknowledges the, ah, _inconveniences_ your operation has experienced," says Junn. "Therefore we're offering a sum _double_ the original price for the heir's safe return. As a goodwill gesture, you understand."

"She's not for sale," Boba replies. "Your princess works for _me_ now. I don't want to part with one of my own."

Safta curls his lip in disdain.

"She's no assassin."

"You're right," you say, irritated that you're being discussed as if you were not even present. "I'm not. What _I_ do is negotiate contracts."

Boba's hand slides behind one of the loose panels of your dress, gently squeezing your inner thigh.

_Good girl._

Gulping a breath of air you say, "The Fett Syndicate would like to extend its own offer to you both. Join us. Boba's empire is expanding, and it will have _no_ competition. You'd be better _with_ the Syndicate than against it."

The brothers look at one another incredulously.

"Now I _know_ this isn't you," says Junn. "You'd never speak for him unless you had no choice."

"Regardless," adds Safta. "We have _no_ intention of betraying the Family."

Feeling Boba's hand increase its pressure you say, "I'd prefer never to see either of you again, but the Boss thinks that you're worth hiring. If you don't agree to our terms-"

Boba nudges his blaster into your hand, and you point it at each of the brothers, watching their faces pale.

"- _You_ won't be walking out of here. I'm no mercenary, but I'm not a saint, either. I'll do what needs to be done to keep the Family off my back. I've run too far from _your_ world to go back now."

A gasp runs around the onlookers, although you're sure that this den of criminals has seen far worse on a regular basis. _This_ is as good as theatre, to them.

You hear Boba shift behind you, his armour clinking ominously.

"Make your choice. I wouldn't cross her. She's vicious."

A ripple of laughter runs around the room, making your skin itch with displeasure. Being centred in the underworld was the last thing you'd ever wanted and yet, for a moment, here you are, trapped in the spotlight.

At last the brothers raise their hands in surrender, fear and distrust hazing them like a murky fog. Relieved, you hand the blaster back to Boba, feeling almost faint to think how close you came to having to put bolts through your own cousins. Junn, always the bolder of the two men, steps towards Boba.

"And what do you want us to tell Raxis Tantu?"

"Nothing," says Fett, and there is so much savagery behind the single word that even before he moves you _know_ what he's about to do. "Your silence will speak for you."

Shunting you aside Boba raises the muzzle of the blaster and fires twice.

Blood strikes your face, your gown, your open mouth, but you only stand and endure it like a flower sprouting from the first snow.

Delicate, silent, _alive._


End file.
